


Warlock and Demon Raise a Baby

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Original Work
Genre: Demon, Gen, Other, Swear Words, Unconventional Families, Warlock - Freeform, child-rearing, curse words, cursing, exists in the same universe as Necromancer and Trashmagician, the total package, title's a work in progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-10-20 10:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10660299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: The contemporary family can be one demon, his hellspawn, and their warlock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> Except I like warlocks better.

* * *

 

The bedroom was dim and quiet at this hour. The drawn shades kept out the shine from the street lamps and let atomized darkness fill the room like a fine mist, gossamer night covering the scarlet duvet and the end table and the long, covered mirror hung beside the door. The air was just cool enough to make the heavy blankets of the bed welcome.

A man was in the bed, his long grey hair fanned across a crisp percale pillowcase. His bearded cheek nudged deeply into the pillow and his nose was almost lost in the cushion that stifled his soft snores. He slept alone.

Above him loomed a titanic black figure, very roughly man-shaped above the waist. Its head was a pulpy mass of rippled skin and huge glistening eyes, with patches of stringy hairs bristling where they jutted from the folds of flesh. Two thready feelers twitched and swayed mindlessly in the air, grasping for sensation. The figure’s broad shoulders gave way to a pair of powerful arms and meaty hands; then beneath them another pair of longer, more lithe arms with spidery fingers; and then yet another pair of almost infant-like limbs set upon the stomach and equipped with stubby, clutching little half-digits at the tips of its tiny hands.

The figure shifted and loomed over the man. Its hairy maxillary palps writhing in amusement, it extended a hateful proboscis towards its victim and opened its spongy labellum, allowing a long string of greenish-yellow slime to drip slowly down towards the face of the sleeping man. The figure emitted a low, rough chuckling noise and gave the thread of fluid a shake.

The fluid struck the man’s cheek and he shot awake. One graceless motion had him dashing the back of his hand across the slime and lurching upright in bed, hazel eyes flicking up at the figure.

“Oh my fucking–” the man spat. “Fuck you, asshole! That is disgusting!”

“Wakey wakey,” the figure sang. “Flesh of the unborn and strips of roasted slaughter-animal flesh!”

“Good Christing morning, Bub!” the man snarled. “What, pray tell, fucking time is it?”

The figure tilted its head to look at the clock on the far nightstand. “12:35 a.m. You’re sleeping late.”

“Know why they call it a witching hour?” the man asked. He gestured sharply at himself. “Because warlocks don’t have designated wake-up times. So if you’ll excuse me–”

The man seized his pillow and threw himself stomach first on the bed, covering his head with the cushion. Bub scoffed and put a pair of hands on what passed for his hips.

“Get up, lazy sack of chicken bones. I’m here to pick up Tim.”

“I don’t doubt you’re here to pick up Tim!” the man snapped, a little muffled. “But seeing as it’s only been Saturday for 35 fucking minutes, I’m not going to pass him over to you.”

“It’s the weekend. Officially my time.”

“Then you should’ve picked him up back when it was still Friday evening, dumbshit, instead of rousting me in the ante-fucking-meridian. Eat an entire dick.”

“I had dinner, thanks. Give me my son.”

“Get behind me, demon.”

Bub laughed. “What, is that the way you’ve been fantasizing about it?”

“You wish.”

Bub reached down with a big hand and pulled away the pillow. The man’s grip was no match for him, and after a little awkward dangling and some threatening noises of splitting fiber, the man flopped back down on his front on the mattress and glowered up at the demon.

“Monty,” Bub intoned. “Would you have been less of a nettle in my taint if I’d shown up at 11:59?”

“Montecinos to you, asswipe. And as a matter of fact I really might’ve,” Montecinos replied. “I might’ve been positively glad to feel the treacly caress of your foul digestive fluid, because I could’ve used that precious sixty seconds to explain to Timothy that no, his father had not forgotten him but was merely stuck in traffic, or frantically digging his way out of a snowdrift of succubus pussy, or until two moments prior had still been elbow-deep down a 16th century heretic’s mouth–”

“Which elbow?”

“Pick your favorite one, Bub, I don’t care, I’m being evocative,” Montecinos seethed. “I could’ve made any of those callow excuses stick because you would have actually shown up on Friday evening as suits the purview of your fucking custody allotment and the hopeful expectations of our child. Dickhead!”

Bub shifted his weight. “Um. Shit. Listen, I got the timing a little wrong, but–”

Montecinos snarled and flipped himself around, sitting up in bed and jabbing an angry finger in Bub’s direction. “I summoned you three hours ago, Bub. You didn’t answer, you unbelievable fuck.”

Bub pounded his palps together menacingly. “Well, if you’d let me drag your narrow, pasty ass into the current century and teach you to send a text message, maybe I would’ve heard about it before now!”

“Or you could come when you’re summoned!”

“Last time I let you summon me you tried to imprison me in a dried camel stomach, so fuck you for suggesting I let you conjure me up every time you need to get in touch!”

Montecinos gave him the bird. “Last time I didn’t use a protective circle you tried to rip my skin off with fish hooks, so fuck you for suggesting I stop using official channels to get in touch with you!”

“Rrrr, you’re such a– whatever! Shit! Fine. I should’ve called you back. Where’s Tim?”

“In bed. Where I put him two hours ago, Bub.” Montecinos glowered. “He couldn’t hardly eat supper because he kept springing up to listen at the door when anyone walked down the hall. He was waiting for you.”

“Oh. Shit,” Bub buzzed. “But it’s not my fault, you know. You people sprang ahead an hour. I planned the whole week to get here at 11 o’clock, swear on my spine.”

“You have an exoskel– no. Fuck it.” Montecinos blew out a harsh breath from his nose. He pushed himself off of the mattress and fumbled for the light switch. The room flooded with buttery light, illuminating the heavy carved furniture, the grotesque artwork on the walls, the coat of half-dried human skin hanging from the doorknob. “Fine. Whatever. You’re here now.”

Bub heaved a sigh and shifted out of the way of Montecinos’ attempted evacuation of the bed. The man struggled out of the heavy blankets and managed to stand up despite the popping of his joints. He rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his long grey hair, trying to twist it back from his face.

“I really didn’t think about Daylight Savings,” Bub mumbled. “I wanted to come by early. I promised I’d take him fishing.”

“Whatever,” Montecinos said, a little more gently than before. “You’re here. I’ll make some coffee and get Tim up.”

“Okay. Can I have– wait. What the fuck are you wearing?”

Montecinos glanced down at himself. “Pajamas.”

“Is that a Warren Zevon band t-shirt?” Bub demanded, squinting his multi-faceted eyes. “They don’t even make Warren Zevon band t-shirts!”

“Eat me.”

“You’re a terrible influence! You could at least wear a Black Sabbath t-shirt. Or Bathory!”

“Fuck, no. Now get back or I’ll put on my Bratmobile shirt.”

Montecinos took his dressing gown off of the hook mounted on the back of the door and replaced the robe with the coat of skin. (The skin would probably dry better there, anyway.) He shrugged into the dressing gown and opened the bedroom door, walking quietly into the benighted apartment. Bub followed, skittering and dragging his heavy tail behind him.

“Do you still have the hazelnut coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Will you make it?”

“You don’t particularly deserve it. I should pour it on your eye.”

Montecinos made the hazelnut coffee and poured a serving into a shallow bowl for Bub. Once he saw his infernal guest settled comfortably out of the way, Montecinos made for Timmy’s room.

He twisted his fingers and switched off the more severe hexes that warded the child’s room, in case Bub decided to follow. (He left the nausea spell. Fucker deserved a little suffering.) Montecinos opened the door slowly, not wanting to startle the child awake.

Timmy was asleep in his twin bed, the blue quilted covers pulled up to his little chin and tucked around his curled body. In the glow of the nightlight, Timmy’s dark hair and knobby forehead contrasted clearly with his bleached sheets. His fat little cheeks pushed up against his pillow in a way that propped his mouth open and there were tear tracks on his cheeks and snot dried on his upper lip.

Montecinos smiled fondly. Poor disgusting little wiggler. He’d have made such a good dinner, once upon a time. Oh well.

He reached out a hand and gently stroked the child’s hair. “Timoteo. Time to wake up, chico. Papa’s here.”

The child shifted and began to stir. “Wha…?”

“Papa’s here to pick you up. You two are going fishing, right?”

“He’s here?” Timmy blinked his dark, multi-faceted eyes open and grinned. “See, Monty? He said he’d come get me!”

“And so he has,” Montecinos agreed. “Hop up. Wash your face and get dressed. We’ll be in the kitchen.”

Timmy lurched himself out of bed and hurried through the bedroom door towards the bathroom. He closed it with a loud enough bang that Montecinos gritted his teeth.

Timmy opened the door again. “Sorry!” he squeaked, and closed the door more gently this time.

Montecinos sighed and got up from the bed, walking back into the hall and scratching his beard a little. Bub was in the kitchen, still slurping.

“Am I on the shit list?”

“All I know is you’d better catch some impressive fish,” Montecinos replied. He poured himself a cup and took a slug of scalding coffee. “Do you get anything specific at this season?”

“Leviathan.”

“Do me a favor and get swallowed whole.”

Bub buzzed a little. “We’ll bring you back something inedible and stinky.”

“You’ve already brought me that,” Montecinos replied. “Oh. And there’s a PTA meeting on Thursday, you know. I know you know. Show up or I will peel you like a shrimp.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.”

“On time, Bub.”

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll be early, just to spite you. Asshole.”

They stood in silence, drinking coffee and listening to the wall-muffled sounds of Timothy hastily brushing his teeth. The linoleum floor felt tacky under Montecinos’ bare feet and he frowned to himself, wondering if it was worth making breakfast at this hour. He might as well stay up for a bit, once he had the apartment all to himself. He’d been meaning to prepare a few spells for the sabbath anyway. Might as well have them ready to go.

“Hear from Jen?” Bub asked at last.

Montecinos huffed. “No, Bub, I have not heard from Jen. Not in the last week. Not in the week before that. Not since fucking April, all right? Once again I swear on my dark powers I will let you know the very moment your two-timing devil-bride shows her face–”

“Hey, whoa, bride is very strong–”

“But as far as I can tell she’s still scamming zillionaires in Musha Cay and giving even a constantly-regenerating liver a run for its money.” Montecinos sipped his coffee to try and burn away the trace of appreciation in his voice. “Living the dream.”

“She’s a handful,” Bub agreed.

Montecinos rolled his eyes and sighed with relief at the sound of excited little feet tottered out towards the kitchen. He started to smile and didn’t try to stop himself. “Here we are…”

Timothy appeared in the doorway, dressed in shorts and a long-sleeved shirt with a dinosaur on it. He blinked and gave Bub that slightly shy look he still tended to offer his father, even after all these years. “Hi, Papa.”

“Hey, Tim-o. Sorry I’m late, boss, I got a little mixed up. Think you can forgive me?”

Montecinos held up a hand, as if to shield his expression from Bub. He looked at Timmy and shook his head, making an exaggerated face.

Timmy giggled. “Um, maybe. But only if we catch a really big fish!”

“Well, all right. Got my marching orders.” Bub slurped up the rest of the coffee with a disgusting noise and wiggled his proboscis in delight. “Nice cuppa joe, Monty, but we’d better get on the road if we want to be on the Styx before all the weekenders hit. C’mon, kid. We’ll take the elevator all the way down.”

“Have fun,” Montecinos said, following them to the door. “Fall in.”

Timmy laughed again. He threw his arms around Montecinos’ legs. “Bye, Monty. Have a good weekend!”

Montecinos stooped down to wrap his arms around the child and plant a kiss on the top of his head before straightening back up. “Yes, I’ll try. You too, chico.”

“Bye, Monty,” Bub intoned. “Have a really good weekend.”

“Get out of my home,” Montecinos replied brightly. He held the door open for the little boy and the lumbering demon to make their way out. Despite the late hour, Timmy was clearly ready for adventure and hurried a few paces ahead of his father.

Bub dragged his long, enormous body out of the apartment, but not before the pincers on the tip of his tail could fly up and give Montecinos’ ass a quick pinch. Montecinos nearly bit his tongue and swatted viciously after the pinch, but the tail had already made its successful escape into the hall. Montecinos flipped Bub the bird once more, glaring ferociously, but managed to turn the gesture into a cheerful wave when Timmy looked back.

Dried camel stomach was too good for the bastard. Next time he’d try a frog gallbladder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bub and Montecinos through the years.

It was a beautiful day.  Sunshine as yellow as a molten egg yolk filled the air, dripping down to soak the green grass of the apartment building yard with thick layers of light.  The trees were full of busy little birds and the dull throb of the honeybees on the roof made the afternoon seem sweetly narcotic.

Montecinos stuck his bunned head out of the window and whistled shrilly.  He glowered into the trees, trying to pick out individual birds amidst the hopping and fluttering, and only began to smile when a small brown sparrow came flapping over.  He held out a hand and the bird caught his finger with her tiny feet.

“Pia!  Good,” he said, pulling the bird in.  “Good, excellent.  Come on in, no messages today.  You have a job to do.  I’m giving you your guts back.”

The bird trilled, sitting docile on the warlock’s finger as he conveyed her to a spot on one of the dining room chairs.  She clutched the back of the chair with her feet and the warlock swept over to one of the cabinets that lined the kitchen walls.

“He’s down for a nap at the moment,” Montecinos mumbled, “but I need a babysitter for the next few hours.  I have to go contest a parking ticket and if the gypsy woman behind the bench sees me with a baby there will be just one price to pay, know what I mean?”

The bird clucked thoughtfully.

“Exactly.  So… let me see.”

Montecinos began digging through the cabinet, pushing poultices and dried raven’s feet out of the way.  Jugs of potion ingredients, dried lizards, leather-bound notebooks and coasters and woven bracelets tottered menacingly as he tapped through the elaborate jigsaw of direly useful clutter.  Finally a fingertip alighted on a long plastic pillbox and he made a delighted “Aha!” noise.

“Here we are.  Lisa, Annette, Mercedes, Tisha— Pia,” Montecinos crooned.  He opened the box and pulled out a dehydrated pill, no bigger than a child’s fingernail.  He closed the pillbox, put it back, and reached for the bird.

The bird meekly let him hold her in one hand, her tiny body settled unresistingly in the cup of his palm and her little head peeped up over his fingers.  Montecinos pried her beak open and pushed the pill into her mouth, holding the beak closed until it was clear that the pill had gone down.

“Let that work,” Montecinos instructed, tossing the bird lightly into the air and letting it flutter over to settle on the dining room table.  

The warlock turned on his heel and began pulling off his t-shirt, flinging it ahead of him into his bedroom.  When he reappeared, stuffing the tails of a white Oxford shirt into the waistband of his jeans, a naked young woman with a massive amount of long brown hair sat molting feathers on the table.

Montecinos chucked a pair of shorts and a t-shirt at her.  “Don’t gimme that look.  Get dressed.  I’m going to check on the urchin and then I’ll show you where I keep the baby formula.”

“Who even bought you a dehydrator?” Pia asked.  She pulled on the shorts.  They were decorated with little images of ZZ Top.

“Want me to mix you a drink, sweetheart?” Montecinos snapped.  “If you don’t want the job I can get Mercedes to do it.  I thought you would’ve liked having your guts back.”

Pia gave him a sad and soulful middle finger and tugged the t-shirt over her head.  Montecinos returned the gesture and hurried into Timmy’s bedroom.

Inside the crib a sizeable little log of tender baby flesh and cotton onesie was sleeping peacefully.  His plump little lips were propped open to allow a stream of drool out onto the thin foam mattress and his head was dusted with fine dark hairs.  Montecinos dragged a blanket over the baby with a smile.  Timmy had been sleeping just like this the time Montecinos fit him into a roasting pan with carrots and onions and popped him in the oven.  Three hours at 300 later, the little gumball had woken up from his nap all smiles, gnawing a caramelized carrot and wiggling his fat little legs in the air.

Montecinos was still holding out hope of making an invuche out of him.  Just because he hadn’t been able to get Timmy to keep his head turned 180-degrees around when Montecinos put it there didn’t mean he never would.

“Pórtate bien, chico.”

Montecinos slipped silently back out of the bedroom, checked the wards, and came out to find Pia messing with the television remote.  He summoned her into the kitchen, taught her to warm the formula, offered her access to the half-opened bottle of Sauvignon Blanc he’d popped in the fridge the night before, and took one second to look around himself and breathe.

“All right.  It should only be about three hours,” Montecinos said, walking back out into the foyer.  “If anything goes wrong, get someone else to send me a message.  I’ll sit by the window so I can hear any birdsong that comes along.”

“Okay,” Pia said.

Montecinos made a complicated gesture with his fingers, addressing Pia in an invoking tone.  “Don’t open the door for anyone but me.  Feed him at four o’clock.  Consider yourself ensorcelled not to just bail out.  And relax and have a nice afternoon.”

Pia sighed and pulled her hair over one shoulder.  “I’m going to drink all your wine.”

“That’s why it’s on offer.  See ya.”

“Take the bun out,” Pia advised, as Montecinos pulled a threadbare sport coat on.  He made an appreciative noise and pointed a finger gun at her, pulling the rubber band out of his hair.  Much more professional.

Then he was gone.

* * *

Montecinos returned around five-thirty, $80 lighter and full of spitting recriminations.  Those stupid goofy witches-only parking signs… who took those damn things seriously?  At least they could be literally true as well as legally binding.  He’d rather be a toad than have to put up with this nonsense.

He stumbled in the door, already kicking off his shoes and tearing away at the buttons on his shirt before even glancing up to spot Pia.

“If you’re going to watch Game of Thrones, you might keep the volume down a little,” he said sourly, looking up towards his living room.

Bub was sprawled on his leather sofa, a six-pack set on the coffee table beside him.  Timmy was settled face-down on his chest, dozing.   Bub glanced up at Montecinos and waved a hand.  “Heyo.  I’m guessing the law won?”

“Where’s Pia?” Montecinos asked, throwing the deadbolt and cracking his knuckles.

“Oh, I sent her home,” Bub buzzed.  “Literally.  She seemed glad to go, once I assured her that I’d stick around to keep tabs on the Little Prince of Hell.  By the way, what smells?”

“Tanning solution, shut up.”  Montecinos hurried over to the cabinet.  “Where is my—”

“She took this plastic box thing with her.”  Bub radiated self-satisfaction.  “I thought it was hers, but don’t tell me she made off with your pills.  Were you keeping the good shit in a cabinet?  Big of you to be upfront about needing a little help.”

Montecinos scrambled through the cabinet, but the box of pills was gone.  He hunched his shoulders against the headache growing from the base of his skull and turned to fit Bub with a merciless glower.  

Bub reached for a beer and popped the lid off with the flick of a thumb.  It wasn’t a twist-off.

“Those were my servants, Bub,” Montecinos hissed.  “I caught them and kept them for my own purposes!”

“Whoops.”

“How did you even get in here, you sulfur-encrusted shitsnake?”

Bub covered Timmy’s head with two hands.  “Jeez, Monty, language.  Pia called me.”

“Oh!  So you’ll come when she calls, will you—”

“Sounds to me like you left the door open for this,” Bub shrugged.  “How was she not supposed to snoop around if you gave a dissatisfied and ensorcelled servant run of your apartment?”

“I had a court date!”

Bub shrugged again.

Montecinos began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.  He’d really liked those ZZ Top shorts, damn it.  He’d hex the girl to Hell and back if that wouldn’t only rebound, in all likelihood, to Bub’s benefit.

“Fine, fuck you, whatever,” Montecinos said at last.  “I’m back, so you can go.  It’s Tuesday.  You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“But here I am.  Weird how that works.  Just be glad the agreement says I can’t vanish back to hell with my son in tow on a weekday.”

“Legally can’t or physically can’t?”

“Like I’d tell you.”

“Leave, Bub.”

“Nah.  I’m only just comfortable.  Got Timmy down for the count.”  Bub gently touched the baby’s back.  “He’s a cute little larva, isn’t he?”

“I didn’t invite you,” Montecinos insisted, “and I’m telling you I want you to leave.  Are you really going to make me banish you?”

“I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, Monty,” the demon replied.  He kicked a few more arms up onto the sofa and let his tail dangle over the far arm.  “But I’m sticking around, at least through the end of the episode.”

Montecinos took a long, loud inhale through his nose and swept from the living room into his bedroom.  He ran both hands across his cluttered bookshelves, digging around for his favorites.  If the little traitorous brat had taken any of his notes…

Bub soon appeared in the doorway.  “What’s up your ass?”

“You want to stay?” Montecinos snapped, flicking through a heavy tome and pushing his hair out of his eyes.  “Fine.  I’ll let you stay.  In a jar.”

Bub rumbled.  Of its own volition the book snapped closed in Montecinos’ hand and the cover began to scorch against his skin.  Montecinos chucked the book at Bub’s head, using his freed hands to point a shrivelling hex at his unwelcome guest.  Bub dodged the book and the hex zinged past him, thudding heavily into the wall and making the plaster pucker.  

Bub snarled.  “Douchebag!  I’ve got a baby here!”

Montecinos had been in mid-spell, but spotted Timmy tucked against Bub’s chest and immediately stopped, holding both hands up.  The tension in the room mounted, but no attacks came from either combatant.  After a few silent seconds, Montecinos began to gesture with his hands, pointing both index fingers in the general direction of the Timmy’s bedroom; Bub snarled and snapped his tail.

“Shit.  Right.”  Montecinos stopped moving and unfolded his hands again.  “Sorry, habit.  Go put the child down and we’ll settle this ourselves.”

“Like fuck I will!  I’ll use him as a shield if you don’t get yourself under control!”

“Try it,” Montecinos gritted.  “What makes you think I don’t still have my aim?”

Bub glowered back and they remained locked in a standoff for another stretch of silence.  Montecinos took one step forward; Bub held his ground and bristled all over.

Montecinos took another step forward.  Bub slowly took one step back, retreating just that little bit more into the living room.

“C’mon,” Montecinos said, trying to sound reasonable.  “Neither of us want to do this in front of him.  Let’s put him down and we can talk about you leaving.”

“One, I’m not leaving until I want to.  Two, you’re going to hex me when I put him down.”

“I really will,” Montecinos smiled nastily.  “But I’ll hex you either way.  And if you don’t want me to hex you when you’re down two arms and operating with a serious, if adorable, handicap, then I suggest we put Timothy down so he’s not exposed to any of these adult situations.”

“You’re a fucker.”

“Language, Bub,” the warlock sniped back.  

At length they walked themselves into Timmy’s room, circling one each other like angry predators as they went.  Bub slowly installed the baby in his crib and Montecinos kept his hands up by his head, allowing the demon to tuck the child in.

Bub bristled the instant the baby was settled, but Montecinos shook his head.  “Not in here.  Let him sleep.”

Bub nodded and gestured for Montecinos to lead the way out.  The warlock went, walking backwards to keep his eyes on Bub until the demon was out of Timmy’s room and gently closing the door behind him.

There was a moment when something like a relieved sigh moved between them.  Then Montecinos felt himself lifted off of his feet and thrown across the room.  

Bub had the third set of arms waving in the air and used his influence to hurl Montecinos against the far wall.  The warlock bounced off and was instantly slammed against the wall again, jarring his hips and bumping his head painfully.

“Fuck you,” Montecinos hissed, twisting an ugly curse in Bub’s direction.  It hit Bub hard, sending him reeling back on three hands before he got his balance again and charged across the living room with a ghastly skittering noise.

Montecinos writhed on the wall, trying to keep his hands loose from Bub’s influence.  Something kept trying to hold them down, and at the last second he mumbled a spell into the wall itself.  Plaster hands reached out and pulled him in, just in time to miss a punch from Bub that could’ve broken his back.  Montecinos held his breath, keeping his eyes squeezed shut as the building warped to convey him beneath the floor and over to the far wall to spit him back out.

Freed, if wobbly, the warlock aimed a hex at the disoriented demon.  It struck him hard in the back of the head and Bub snarled.

“If I’m going to have a concussion, so are you,” Montecinos railed.

Bub turned like a coiling predator, palps thumping away, pincer snapping.  He summoned two lines of sulfurous flame that made a beeline for Montecinos’s cabinet.

“Asshole!  I need that!”  

Montecinos extinguished the flames with a flicker of magic, rolling out of the way of a swing of the gouging pincer, and tumbled over towards the hallway to the kitchen.  Getting his books for anything more complicated than simple eviction would take too much time.  He had to banish the demon, and quickly.

He needed a circle.

Bub grabbed him again with that hateful Hellish influence and picked him up off the ground.  Bub squeezed one of those ugly baby hands into a fist and Montecinos felt his windpipe constricting.  Furious, he gestured for a shield or a dispersal spell, but everything he could think of required words.  Instead, he reached out blind and desperate and managed to seize a vase on the foyer shelf.  He winged it at the demon and felt the welcome flex of released muscle as the demon dodged the vase, leaving it to shatter on the floor.

Bub growled and settled for shoving Montecinos up against the wall behind the door, his feet almost a meter off the ground.  Montecinos cast a bone-twisting spell at him, hoping to at least break the invoking arms, but Bub only pushed him harder and summoned those lines of fire to rage towards him.

“Going to roast you in your own fucking apartment,” Bub rasped.  “How’s that for burned at the stake?”

“Give it a shot, dickhead,” Montecinos snarled, turning his face away from the flames.  “My lawyers know what to do in the event of my death by hellfire!”

The knock on the door sounded tentative and delicate by comparison with the vicious threats and thuds they’d been hearing, but all the same the noise stopped both combatants in their tracks.  Montecinos held up his hands once more and Bub startled, letting the warlock’s body began to slide down the wall.  Freed from Bub’s push, Montecinos hurried over to the foyer mirror and dusted some of the scorch marks off his face.

“Turn that shit off,” Montecinos hissed, gesturing to the fire.  Bub grunted and the sulfurous flames on the floor snapped down to a leery, skulking smoulder.  “Off!”

The flames burnt out in sad little wisps of smoke.  Montecinos cleared his throat and answered the door.

The apartment concierge was standing in the hallway.  The warlock gave her an enormous smile and stood carefully in her line of sight to Bub.  The court order had required Montecinos to mark out his apartment as an accessible plane for Bub to maintain corporeality.  If she saw Bub… well, Montecinos did not want to have to try and break this concierge’s memory.  He had enough to worry about.

On second thought, maybe he should fix her a drink.  She looked like she’d make a fine bird.

“Good evening,” Montecinos said, trying hard not to sound like Alfred Hitchcock.  “Is everything all right?”

“Is anything in your apartment burning?” the concierge asked.  It wasn’t every polite to answer a question with a question, but Montecinos figured he’d let this one slide.  “Some of your neighbors smell smoke.  They even thought they heard a fight.”

“Just me!” Montecinos laughed lightly; maybe a little too lightly.  “I asked the babysitter to get dinner started and I’m afraid it began to burn.  I’ve been clattering around trying to sort it out before just this kind of interview was necessary.  I think I’ve got it under control now.”

The concierge frowned and squinted behind him.  Montecinos darted a quick look over his shoulder, but Bub was nowhere to be seen.  He restrained his sigh of relief and opened the door more completely.

“Well… all right,” the concierge said slowly.  “If you’re sure you’ve gotten it sorted out.”

“Completely,” Montecinos agreed.  “So sorry for the trouble.  I’m absolutely mortified, I assure you.  Don’t tell me the firefighters were called?”

“Not quite yet.  Just open some windows and be more careful next time.”  The concierge looked at the sooty parquet floor and frowned.  “And you should put some rugs down.  The building requires that 80% of the floor be covered for the comfort of our tenants.  That’s probably why people thought there was a fight.”

“Very understandable,” Montecinos oozed.  “I’ll get right on it.  You have my word.”

“Uh-huh.  All right, sir.  Have a good evening.”

Montecinos gave her one last brilliant smile and closed the door on her.  He waited under he heard the concierge’s steps fading down the hall to throw the bolt again and put on the chain.  He immediately started muttering.  

“Where are you, you…”

Throwing open windows as he went, Montecinos checked the kitchen, the pantry, and behind the sofa, but in his heart he knew there was only one place Bub could have gone on such short notice.  He found the demon in his bedroom, thank fuck, pacing restlessly over his bed and across his floor, bumping into books and knickknacks and knocking things over.  

“Stop that!” Montecinos snapped.

Bub reared up and spat at him.  “Fuck you.  Is she gone?”

“Of course she’s gone.  Would I be here if she weren’t?”

“Whatever.  Now, where were we—”

“Oh no.  No way,” Montecinos said.  “I’m not getting thrown out of this apartment because you want to fight.  If I’m going to get reamed for protecting my home and property, I’m going to be doing it under circumstances that make it possible for me to sue your ass for full custody.”

Bub growled and lunged at him.  Montecinos jerked awkwardly to the side, escaping the oncoming demonic bulk even as he felt the unholy tide of Bub’s influence clawing at his skin again.  He had no desire to be flung into another wall or two, so he ran for his bed and vaulted over the foot of the frame, landing with a mangled attempt at light-footedness and a wince on the far side of the room.  Bub reeled on him and came skittering across the mattress towards him.

“Get out of my fucking apartment!” Montecinos whispered.

“No!  I was invited in by an authorized babysitter and deputized to remain!” Bub hissed back.  “If you don’t like it, take it up with the transitive property!”

Montecinos dashed around to the far side of the bedroom, trying to grab the walking stick he kept in the room.  If magic was too noisy, the least he could do was take a swing at one of those huge eyes.  

Bub reached out and grabbed him by the ankle.  Bub pulled his leg out from under him and Montecinos just had time to cast a silencing spell around the room before he hit the floor with a muted thud.  Nothing broke, but Bub began pulling him back across the room, apparently eager to change that as he hoisted Montecinos up by one ankle.  Montecinos kicked and writhed, twisting and trying to claw at whatever of Bub he could reach.

“Got you, you wriggly little—”

Montecinos kicked towards his head and landed a stockinged heel against one of Bub’s eyes.  He felt an unpleasant give upon contact with the fleshy organ but luckily the eye didn’t burst.  Bub dropped him almost to the floor, three hands flying up to consult the injured eye as one hand still gripped Montecinos in a vice.  

“You son of a bitch!” Bub squawked.

Montecinos twisted his leg around and broke Bub’s grip.  “Get out of my apartment!  I rescind Pia’s authority and by extension your own.”

“I’m going to pull your spine out through your ass!”

Clearly diplomacy was at a standstill.  Montecinos scrambled away out of immediate striking range and stood with his back to the far wall, panting.  His stick rested by the bedroom door, too far away to reach.  If he summoned it to his side, Bub would likely catch it and it was suicide to give the demon any additional reach.  He didn’t have the spell for binding a demon to an object handy, and even if he had he’d have to trap Bub first to get him to hold still.

Shit.  Montecinos cast about for a solution and suddenly found it.

Bub’s earlier careening around the room had turned up half of the lovely flatwoven carpet Montecinos used to cover his summoning circle.  (One never left that sort of thing out in the living room for everyone to see.)   While Bub tried to get his eyesight under control, Montecinos feinted right, kicking up the carpet a little further.  One eye squinted shut, Bub lurched to catch him again, but Montecinos broke left and vaulted himself over the bed once more, pushing the rug further off of the circle and darting a look backwards to see that Bub’s scrambling hands had hiked it up the rest of the way.

Montecinos grabbed his stick and sprinted back across to the other side of the room, firing off a hex that zinged across Bub’s shoulder to burst wetly against the far wall.  Bub snarled and Montecinos’ closet began to belch flame.

“If that hits any of my good shit I will make a new suit out of your tanned guts!” Montecinos roared, swinging the stick at Bub’s head.  

Bub was beyond words.  He lunged forward, right over the circle, and seized the stick.  Montecinos let him have it, taking the opportunity to slice his own wrist open with his one sharpened tooth and suck firmly at the wound.  He spat the mouthful of blood into the circle, dead between Bub’s first pair of walking hands.

“Get out!” Montecinos bellowed.  Bub swung the stick at him, only to vanish with the weapon in the sudden, unceremonious manner that attended the better class of demon appearing and disappearing on the earthly plane.

It was suddenly very quiet.

Montecinos collapsed back against the dresser drawers and slid down to land on his butt.  With a gesture he extinguished the closet fire, wiped away the muck of the hex, and lifted the silencing spell on the bedroom.  

The first thing he heard was Timmy wailing.  He looked over at the clock; well, no wonder.  It was dinner time.

Montecinos bumped his head against the drawers and sighed.

Damn.  Maybe he should’ve let Bub stay around, at least long enough for Montecinos to take a shower.

Hindsight was 20/20.

* * *

Bub was trapped at the office, finishing up a proposal and absent-mindedly slurping up the last of a sinner’s half-digested brains.  He always ate junk food when he was stressed.

He reached out and tapped the intercom.  “Velob, do we still have the Cincinnati numbers from ‘47?”

Silence.  Bub grumbled.

“Velob?”

Nothing.  Bub got up from his desk and moved over to the door of his office, pulling it up.

“Vel—”

“Now this line… hmm.  I’ve never seen a life-line quite like that before.  It runs so wonderfully close to your veins…”

The attractive young demon serving as Bub’s personal assistant was giggling airily as Montecinos patiently examined Velob’s proffered hand.  The warlock was smirking as he ostensibly read the demon’s palm, tracing a fingertip over the spindly two-fingered appendage and cupping it with his other hand.

The baby carrier sat at Montecinos’ feet.  

“…which are throbbing,” Montecinos added, apparently touching the vein in question.  He looked up Velob and smiled slowly.  “Are you excited about something?”

Velob giggled again, covering all three of their mouths with a slightly bulkier clawed hand.  “Oh, well, I’m not sure–”

“Velob,” Bub repeated.  Velob and Montecinos glanced up at him.  Montecinos relinquished his assistant’s hand with a lingering gesture and Velob shot to attention.

“Yes, sir?”

“I want the–”  What had he wanted?  Something about proposals.  “I want to know why this man is in my office.  Does he have any appointment?”

“He has your son, sir,” Velob said needlessly.

“Just dropping off, Bub,” Montecinos said.  He got to his feet and leaned down to pick up the baby carrier.  “This will be quick.”

“I don’t see anyone without an appointment,” Bub snapped.  “And it’s barely Friday afternoon.  I still have four hours before it’s even advisable that I pick Tim up.”

“Yeah, well, I’m going to this wild new thing called a sabbath,” Montecinos drawled.  He brushed past Bub and walked into his office.  “Maybe you’ve heard of it.  And since it’s going to be your turn in just a little while, I thought I’d drop him off so you can have the extra time together while I got out of dodge.  Sounds good?”

“Yeah, except for the part where I’m not supposed to have him for another four hours.”

“Don’t worry, I authorize you.  Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”

“I won’t!  Get a sitter or—”

Montecinos gave him an unpleasant smile.  “I would, but remember how you so-generously liberated my whole flock of babysitters?  And messengers, and servants, and really just individuals who were contractually bound to my service.”

Bub crossed his arms.  “Monty.  No one considers inducing women to vomit up their guts so they turn into birds to be legally binding employment.”

“I said contractually, not legally,” Montecinos snapped.  “And in case you were wondering, it’s exactly this kind of sloppiness and imprecision of language that gives me a leg up whenever we go to court.”

“Eat me!  You get a leg up because I’m non-humanoid and the judge is a bigoted fuck!”

Montecinos shrugged.

Bub let the office door close and waited for Montecinos to set the baby carrier down on the desk before pouncing.  “Now, you scrawny little bastard—!”

“Not now, Bub,” the warlock said, managing to sound completely underwhelmed even when Bub grabbed him by the neck.  He croaked, but didn’t start choking until Bub began to lift him off the ground.  

“Oh, sure, you’re on a schedule, but so am I, Monty,” Bub snarled, getting in the warlock’s face.  “And it means I have to be on-call for the next four hours!  At 40 paces Timmy still looks like a snack to me, so how does it look to everybody else?  By the time you’d be done playing footsie with my assistant, you’d turn around and find nothing left but a little barbecue sauce smeared on the onesie!”

Bub released Montecinos’ neck — his lawyer would bust him down if he actually killed the little weasel — and used his powers to throw the warlock across the room.  Montecinos somehow caught himself in mid-air and altered his trajectory to land gracefully on the sofa, taking the time to frigidly cross one leg over the other.  

Bub grunted.  The old dog had learned some new tricks.

“Not.  In front.  Of the baby!” Montecinos snarled, rubbing his neck.  Bub felt a brief, bleak flash of guilt and eased up on the bristling, glancing over at the carrier.  “And he looks like a four-course meal to me, so don’t give me that shit!”

“All right, yeah,” Bub admitted.  “Fine.  But shit, Monty—”

“Montecinos.”

“Whoever the fuck you are.  Don’t bring a baby to Hell.  At least not without getting me to escort you.”

“I called,” Montecinos said petulantly.  “You declined to answer.”

Shit.  If Velob hadn’t been giving him his calls, sabotage was in the wind.  “Well, I haven’t been getting them, so…”

“Bullshit you didn’t get them!” Montecinos roared.  “How do you not get a summons?”

Oh.  Those.  

“Because bullshit I come when you call me!” Bub replied.  Then, “You gotta work a little harder than that.”

Montecinos flushed with anger and flipped him the bird.  Bub felt his palps wriggle with glee.  “Timothy is dropped off.  Your time starts now.  I’ll be back late on Sunday.”

“No!  I said I’m not dealing with a baby, not right now,” Bub insisted.  “You’ve never needed an early pick-up on a sabbath before.  What changed?”

Montecinos shifted on the sofa.  “Well, it’s… a bit of an old home week sort of thing.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes.  Me and a few friends are going to a house by a lake.  Make a few human sacrifices, dance naked in the moonlight, orgies for the applicable, barbecue, and maybe smoke a few cigars.  You know.  Fellowship.”

Bub stared.  “Wait, you lost me.  You have friends?”

Montecinos scowled at him and got off the sofa.  He began walking around Bub’s office, eyeing the decor and peering at Bub’s framed credentials.

“What’s your doctorate in?”

“Art history.  Take the baby, Monty.”

“I’m not taking Timothy to an unholy sabbath!  Not until he’s 18.  As it is he’ll get swapped for the first course and it’ll be an awful lot of awkward conversations when people start asking why my BYOB can’t be shish-kebabed.”

“Well, I’m not keeping him in a high-powered office environment!  It’d cripple him!”  The last thing he wanted is for his son to have to undergo the same burnout/dropout/tune-in experience Bub had required around age 20.  Getting Type-A personality traits drilled into one destroyed psyches, and not in the good way.

“Just keep him in here,” Montecinos insisted.  “Look at him, he’s perfectly content.  And it’s only a few more hours until you were going to pick him up anyway.  Just thank me for saving you a trip and I’ll make tracks.”

“No!  If four hours shouldn’t make a difference to me, why should it make a difference to you?  Are you carpooling or something?”

“It’s called broompooling, and no.  But I’m not going to summon you up in the middle of a dark debauch just to make the baby handoff.  My friends will want you to stay.”

Bub snorted.  “Well, shit.  Maybe I’ll want to stay.  Knock back a few.  Unwind a little, though ideally without you being such a vigorous steel-wool scouring to my asshole.”

Montecinos give him a sneer.  “Interesting that you’d be so eager to drink in the company of witches again.  I thought you’d learned your lesson about how they’re smart enough to screw you and _screw_ you.”

That tore it.  With half a thought for a quick ‘Sorry, kiddo,’ Bub was upon the warlock.

He was midway through pulling a third tooth out of the warlock’s head — that little sharp fang had been the first to go —when the intercom buzzed.  

“Excuse me, sir?”

Bub reached out with the long arm, letting the big one keep the warlock’s mouth prised open.  He was smoldering from one of Montecinos’ hexes and he could feel the same goddamn left eye the warlock had kicked not two months ago swelling up.  

Montecinos tried to bite him, but his bloody mouth hurt too badly.  Bub wriggled his labellum in delight.

“Ye-ahp?” he asked, giving the tooth the final yank and ripping it out, nerve and all.  The warlock screamed and whimpered and started to claw at him, seizing one of his third arms.  Bub jumped and caught one of Montecinos’ wrists, cracking it down on the floor.  

“Your hands are going next,” Bub promised the warlock.  Montecinos gurgled at him.

“Um… sir?”

Bub pressed the intercom again, chuckling.  Seemed his assistant hadn’t quite heard the earlier altercation.  Must be wondering what Bub was doing to Velob’s little boyfriend.  “Yes, Velob, I’m listening.  What is it?”

“The CEO would like to see you, sir.  They have some questions about the upcoming All-Hands that they think you can answer.”

Bub sighed and pressed the intercom button again.  “I’m trying not to hold you personally responsible, but I consider this news like unto a kick in the dick, Velob.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okie-doke.  I’ll be there in ten.”

“Five, sir.”

“Fantastic,” Bub snarled.  He released the intercom and levered himself off of the warlock.  “Looks like it’s your lucky day, Monty.  I’d stay and torture you myself, but…”

“Send that pretty little assistant in, instead,” Montecinos jawed, turning his head to let the blood drip out on the floor.  Bub slapped him with a walking hand.  

“Kinda doubt you’ll be smoking cigars with three potential dry sockets to worry about, so I expect that baby to be waiting for me at Chez Vous at 6 p.m. sharp.  Clear?”

“You could scarcely be opaque, if you’re going to put it that way.”  The warlock struggled to his feet as Bub ransacked his desk for a portable stain remover.  That was the problem with a light-colored tie.  All the blood showed.

Bub glanced up from squeaking the stain marker over his neckwear.  Montecinos was making a complicated gesture with his fingers.

“Think about it,” Bub intoned.  “Anything you do to hex me will be immediately seen by my superiors.  They might kill me, but they might just fire me, and then I won’t have a job.”

“And I’ll have full custody,” Montecinos replied.  “Especially if I show them what you did to my teeth.  That is not the kind of thing one wants to see out of an infant’s father.”

“Maybe,” Bub allowed.  “Or maybe, since the judge didn’t seem all that hot on you, either, they’ll take Tim away from both of us and put him in foster care.”

If there was something that could be said for Montecinos — and Bub was fairly sure that that the jury was still out on that, but if there was _some_ thing that could be said — it was that Montecinos didn’t take stupid gambles.  The warlock slowly stopped spell-casting and used a hand to wipe his bloody mouth.

“Shit.  It’s in my beard, isn’t it?”

“Moustache, too,” Bub chirped.  

Montecinos snarled and lifted the screen of the baby carrier.  Timmy was dozing inside.

The warlock fish-hooked his own upper lip with one finger and dragged it away from his gums, showing the baby the fresh, bleeding holes.  “This is what your papa does when he loses his temper.”

“Damn it, Monty!” Bub yelled.  “Don’t say that shit to him!”

“I don’t intend to lie to this child,” Montecinos said stiffly.  “Now go to your meeting, wage slave.”

Bub snarled and made another threatening lurch towards the warlock.  Montecinos matched him, pushing his chest out fearlessly.  Bub felt an uncomfortable little tingle of something work its way down his back.  It felt almost like respect, which was absolutely horrid.

“I’m going,” Bub said.  “See you at six.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too, baby.”

When Bub returned from the meeting, he found a note stuck to the door.

_Timothy is inside, fed and napping.  Got my teeth back and your assistant’s number.  See you Sunday._

_Signed,  
Montecinos, El Brujo de Chiloe, Villain of a Thousand Tales, the Invuche-Forger_

_PS.  Good luck with the hexes I left in your door.  I want to know how many skin diseases you can get, even with an exoskeleton._

* * *

Sometimes Bub would come into work on Monday in a cast, or several.

Sometimes Montecinos would drink pisco in the bathroom while sewing himself up.

Bub spent three months trapped in a dried bladder.  Montecinos knew all the Furies by smell alone.

“Jesus shit, you two,” Jen sneered, when she blew into town for a big family dinner and caught them each with a black eye (Bub’s the more severe).  “If I’d known the rugrat was going to survive past the first few months, I wouldn’t have stuck him with you.”

* * *

Somewhere along the line they spent a grueling day attending back-to-back preschool admissions interviews together.  

Bub had possessed a banker to fit in and even though the man had smelled overpoweringly like Calvin Klein he hadn’t had time to scrub it off and wound up working himself over with Wet Wipes in an elementary school bathroom whenever he had the spare time; Montecinos had trimmed his beard.  

By the time they got back to the apartment with Timmy, they were too worn out to go through any rituals. Bub barely waited to get through the door before bursting out of the banker body and stretching his cramped limbs, and Montecinos was immediately preoccupied ordering Chinese and cracking open a bottle of Sauvignon Gris. It was only as they tag-teamed Timmy into eating his broccoli that they recalled that only one of them should be at the table, but by then dinner was well underway. If Bub was going to stay that long, of course, it only made sense for Bub to stay until bedtime, so he read Timmy a story while Montecinos loaded the dishwasher and took a long, long, long shower.

Montecinos finally emerged from the bathroom to find Timmy safely tucked in.  The warlock stuck his dripping head into the bedroom, smiling at the little child konked out in the dim glow of the night-light.

“Que duermas bien, chico,” Montecinos said softly, and closed the door again.  He walked out into the living room to find Bub crashed on the sofa, his arms pulled up on the cushions with fingers laced all down his body and his tail slung over the sofa arm.  He held a shallow bowl of the Gris on his chest and was watching the TV on mute, blinking slowly.

“You look comfortable,” Montecinos said, pausing to throw the deadbolt on the door.  There.  Locked up for the night.

“I need to work out tomorrow, tell you what,” Bub replied.  He stretched slowly on the sofa, arms reaching out and flexing and waving in the air.  “I can’t be cooped up like that for so long.”

“Mm.”  Montecinos paused to examine himself in the foyer mirror, running a hand across his jaw.

“Uh-oh,” Bub said, sticking his labellum in the wine.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re mourning your beard,” Bub said.  Montecinos frowned to himself; that was true.  “Which, you shouldn’t.  I get that raggedy-ass bridge goblin was kind of your ‘look’ but this isn’t so short that anyone’s going to forget you have a beard.”

Montecinos gave him the finger and reached for the wine bottle on the table.  He carried it over and plopped down in his easy chair, relaxing back into the plush leather.  “Of course not.  I still have a beard.  And it’s not a huge change. It’s not like it used to go to my chest or anything.”

“Yeah, that’s true.  Like the sexy mall Santa. You know who I mean?”

“Paul Mason?” Montecinos supplied, drinking from the bottle.

“How do you— yeah.  Sure.  Close enough.  Like him, if you’d rolled him in dryer lint.“ Bub looked the warlock over. "Give the close-cropped thing a shot, is all I’m saying.  Looks better with the man-bun.”

“For the final time, it’s just a bun.  There’s no need for additional specificity.  I have a beard, Bub, no one is going to be surprised if I consider myself a man who happens to wear a bun.”

“Fine, whatever.”  Bub shifted on the sofa, stretching again.  “See if I bother to encourage your dreams next time.”

Montecinos hummed again and looked at the TV screen.  “What are you watching?”

Bub blinked.  “I have no goddamn idea.”

“Then it’s time for you to go to bed,” Montecinos said.  The warlock got to his feet and turned off the TV.  “C’mon.”

“No.  I’m comfortable here.”

Montecinos glared at him and sighed.  “Fine.  Stay there.”

Bub’s head snapped up so fast his labellum flicked wine across the coffee table.  “Shit.  Sorry.  But really?”

“Yes, why not,” Montecinos said, taking another pull from the bottle.  “As long as you’re not going to go rifling through the silverware, what do I care.”

“No, don’t downplay it!  This is transformative.”  Bub clasped some hands together and swayed.  “Look at you, adopting me into your life and cohabitating peacefully!  Who ever would’ve thought, when we two met, that you’d someday come to welcome me into your home and—”

Montecinos started drinking around ‘transformative’ and pulled off when he finished the bottle two gulps later.  “Yes, yes, fuck you very much, but I’ve had five or six interviews with some extremely self-important common folk today and the last thing I want to do is to get into a fight with you.  I’m tired and my back hurts and I don’t give a fuck about the pretense of a tussle at the moment.  Maybe catch me in the morning.”

Bub chortled a little to himself and dipped his labellum back in the wine.  “Well, can’t say a ceasefire hasn’t been a long time coming, right?”

Montecinos nodded slowly.  “Timothy was bound to start asking about what all the thumping coming from my room was about, anyway.”  

“Oh, oh ho ho, Monty,” Bub crooned, “you’ve got to let me handle that one.  No way am I going to have anybody else teach my kid the rules of the road.”

“It’s yours, I assure you,” Montecinos sneered.  “I’m certain you can tell him absolutely everything he’d like to know on that fascinating subject. When he finally thinks to ask me about all the virgin blood, I’ll give you a call.”

“Yeah.”  Bub stretched.  “But y’know, I always seem to get the idea that you use your own blood, for your rituals.  Is that right?”

“Timothy is curious,” Montecinos enunciated carefully.  He reached up and flicked his left eye a few times. It went ‘tink!’  “It’s only a matter of time before he’ll realize that this is glass and start wanting to know all about it.  He’s not going to like hearing that I lost it to his papa.  It’s best if we don’t have anything else we have to break to him, so.  Yes.  A ceasefire.”

Bub waved a few arms that ended not in hands but in reinforced stumps.  “Yeah, I’m with ya.  And I would fain remind you that this ain’t all on me.  You don’t look like you could take off a few limbs, but get you going…”

Montecinos nodded and heaved a sigh.  “All right, then.  Stay the night.  There’s blankets, uh, somewhere.”

“I’ll just use some of that big roll of skin you’ve got in the closet.”

“The fuck you will,” Montecinos said, without heat.  “That’s my rightful property.  I traded my soul for that.”

“Dark mystical powers and good skin,” Bub snorted.  “You must’ve been real shitty when you were a young thing.”

“I’m real shitty now, thank you.  It’s just that I’m finally smart enough to add a clause mentioning that I want the good skin to be attached to me.”

“What did whosits even want with your soul?”

“It counts as a dependent on taxes.”

Bub sat up a little.  “No shit?”

Montecinos shrugged.  “That’s what I was told.”  

Bub nodded to himself.  “Well, well, well.  That’s good to know.  See, this is why I should come over more often.  I learn stuff.”

“Don’t push it,” Montecinos grumbled.  

“And who was whosits?”

“What did I just fucking say, Bub?  Do you want to go back to hell?”

“No, no, damn.  Just making conversation, Monty.”  

Montecinos sniffed.  “Sleep, or I will make you sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Can I have a blanket, at least?”

Montecinos sneered and swept into his bedroom.  Bub watched after him, but with the TV off the whole apartment was dark and through the bedroom door he could only see that Montecinos’ chamber was black as pitch.  It was quiet, too, now that Montecinos had laid rugs across everything.

Bub settled on the sofa and looked up at the night sky, taking a deep breath to savor the stillness and the clear air.  He didn’t often spend nights outside of Hell.  Probably not since Jen, and that was… well, something else entirely.  

Out of the blackness came a hard-winged coil of woven cloth.  Bub caught it in the face and spluttered, tangling with it for a moment before shaking it out and realizing that it was, in fact, a heavy cotton blanket.

“Go to bed,” Montecinos ordered and snapped his bedroom door closed.  Bub heard him lock it.

The big old softie.  Bub was definitely going to steal some of his forks.


	3. Parent-Teacher Conference

Miss Sheila laced her fingers together and tried to look just over the left shoulder of the man sitting on the other side of her desk.

She’d been expecting a little bumpiness, as one did when one replaced another teacher in the middle of the school year, but she hadn’t the least idea why her coworkers had balked so upon hearing that she had Timmy Armandarme in her class.  Timmy was a well-behaved child, neither too good nor too bad, middling in most subjects though demonstrating the slightly more robust language and reading skills that were common to the children of highly literate households.

“Of course it’s not Timmy himself,” Mrs. Darla finally explained.  “It’s the parents.  They must be a divorced couple or something.”

“What?  Are they nasty?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Darla said.  “Shockingly vicious.  I think they must keep it out of Timmy’s sight, since he seems so well adjusted, but when your predecessor brought them in for the beginning-of-term conference, she said there was no way they could live together.  Almost ripped each other apart in the classroom!  Hammer and tongs!”

Miss Sheila remembered thinking that that was no way in which to bring up a child.  Now that she saw Timmy’s guardian, she thought that he was in no way the kind of man to bring up a child, either.

He was an elderly South American man, apparently in his early seventies, cadaverous as a dead horse and equipped with a pair of deep-set, startling hazel eyes.  He was not very tall, but so skinny that he seemed to loom over a person even when he was sitting down.  His long grey hair was tied back in a ponytail and his beard and moustache bristled like living things against his stark bones and papery skin.  At first Miss Sheila had thought that he was wearing a Che Guevara shirt under his navy blue sport coat, but now that she looked again she saw that it was actually Brigitte Bardot in a beret.  There was a very, very faint smell to the man, something so subtle and unobtrusive that it just picked away at the back of her mind without ever calling direct attention to itself.  She couldn’t place it, because she’d grown up on nice streets in a tidy, modern city, but something about him somehow made her think of skinned animals.

The man tilted his head to the left and put his eyes squarely in Miss Sheila’s line of sight.  Miss Sheila’s mouth went dry.

“I know we’re still waiting on the father,” the man said.  His voice was delicately accented and rather nasal, which gave it a slightly higher quality than Miss Sheila would’ve expected from looking at him.  “But now that we’ve spent nearly fifteen minutes in doleful silence, I think we might need to entertain the possibility that he won’t be appearing.”

“Maybe so,” Miss Sheila allowed.  “Then let’s proceed, Mister, ah…?”

“Just Montecinos is fine,” the old man said.  “Timothy and I do not share a name.”

“Are you his grandfather?  Timmy is insistent that you aren’t his Dad.”

Montecinos smiled.  It might’ve been a nice smile, if he’d had a few more pounds on him and got that one very sharp tooth filed down.  

“That’s my influence.  I’m neither his father nor his grandfather, no.  I’m his guardian.  I knew the woman who gave birth to him and took him into my care shortly thereafter.”

“Oh.”  That was complicated.  Maybe the mother hadn’t wanted Timmy and had given him away.  But then, with the father still in the picture, what was there for this strange old man to do?  “Then there’s no blood relation at all?”

“That’s a rather impertinent question,” Montecinos said mildly.  “Have you never taught any adopted children, to find my guardianship of Timothy such a novelty?”

“Oh!  No!  No, of course not!”  Miss Sheila colored.  “Only most guardians tend to call themselves something else.  Dad, or uncle, or…?”

“Perhaps, but I am none of those things.  I’m his Monty.  Timothy already has a father, and a grandfather, I must imagine.  And I do not wish to demean myself by claiming any kind of shared ancestor with Timothy’s father.”

The growing curl of disgust in the old man’s lip made Miss Sheila writhe.  There was something so ugly about Montecinos, far beyond the apparent relish he took in embarrassing her on the matter of Timothy’s parentage.  How could he possibly be a good caretaker for Timmy?

She was spared the need of having to reply by the noise of an unholy clatter coming down the hall.  A pink man stuffed in a green tweed suit came careening towards Miss Sheila’s room and bounced off the door jamb.  He caught it with a little wobble and steadied himself, grinning hugely and running a hand over his receding hairline.

Montecinos goggled.  “Wh--”

“Sorry I’m late!” the man said.  He walked into the classroom, his steps slipping like his shoes were brand-new and had slick soles.  He was a portly little man, well-manicured and plump in the face.  His voice was gravelly rumble, much deeper and more purring than Miss Sheila would’ve expected; but then, she hadn’t thought that the old man’s voice matched his body, so perhaps she was a bad judge of these things.  “Traffic was absolute hell.  Bub Armandarme, how do you do?  You must be Miss Sheila.”

Miss Sheila half-rose and offered her hand before she quite knew what she was doing.  Mr. Armandarme took her fingers in a soft, dry grip and pumped her hand up and down.  He didn’t look much like Timmy, except that he was also dark-haired, but all the same Miss Sheila felt a wave of relief wash over her, certain that this was Timmy’s genuine parent.  In fact, the only question Miss Sheila still had was how Mrs. Darla could’ve ever thought these two men were a divorced couple.  Montecinos was old enough to be Mr. Armandarme’s father at least.

Montecinos actually bared his teeth.  

“You’re twenty minutes late, you insect,” he snarled.  “Who in suffering shit do you think you are, wasting everyone’s time like this?”

Miss Sheila’s eyes widened at the language, but Mr. Armandarme just turned to clasp Montecinos by the shoulder.  His smile wasn’t very friendly when he turned it on the old man, but his voice was light.  

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Monty.  Ponytail’s a good look for you.  Makes you look less like a dead sheep.”

“Doesn’t it, though?  And it’s so easy to do, which puts into sharp relief how little effort it takes to attend a meeting on the subject of your son’s well-being.  Not that you appear able to do even that much, you showboating abyssal worm.”

“Gentlemen!” Miss Sheila squealed.

“That kind of talk is wasted on us, ma’am,” Mr. Armandarme said warmly.  He slapped Montecinos on the shoulder and took a seat beside him.  The old man looked like he wanted to spit.  “Neither one a gentleman.  But I appreciate it all the same.  How’s Tim-o doing?”

Miss Sheila cleared her throat and tried to settle back in her seat without staring at Montecinos.  

“W-Well, Timmy’s a good student, all things considered.  He’s learned his alphabet very quickly and scores good marks in Language Arts.  He’s also in the top percentile of the Spanish module.”

Mr. Armandarme jerked a thumb in the direction of the fractionally less thunder-faced Montecinos.  “You can thank that one.  They speak it around the house.”

Miss Sheila smiled at Mr. Armandarme, pleased by his graciousness.  “Timmy does need to work on his math skills, though.  He has some trouble with numbers over sixty, although he’s starting to figure it out.  Maybe you can go over numbers up to one hundred at home.”

Montecinos glanced at Mr. Armandarme.  “Sixty?  You’ve been handling math.  Is this about the Sumerians?”

Mr. Armandarme gave Miss Sheila and Montecinos a sheepish look.  “It’s got twelve factors!  It’s a good number to land on.”

Montecinos rolled his eyes but didn’t look very annoyed.  “There’s a great deal of math that can be done with a sexagesimal system, Miss Sheila.  Have you considered teaching any of it?”

“E-Er… it’s not really a common numerical system, is it?” Miss Sheila pointed out, a little surprised at the direction the conversation had taken.  “So, no.”

Montecinos gave a little one-shouldered ‘suit yourself’ shrug.  

Miss Sheila glanced down at her notes.  “Timmy’s technology skills are weaker than most of the other students.”

“Yes,” Montecinos said.  “I don’t care for television or the Internet.  We have neither at home.”

“I’ve gotten him online a few times,” Mr. Armandarme said.  “Playing solitaire and that kind of thing.  I can brush up on that a little more.”

“That’d be a good idea.  There are lots of educational games available for free, Mr. Armandarme, and I’d be happy to write down a list for you.”

“Thanks!”

“As to Timmy’s visual art skills, they are a little _imaginative_.”  She’d spent a lot of time working on the right word.  “I wanted to ask what he watched at home, but if he doesn’t watch anything… what do you read him?”

“Folk tales, mostly,” Montecinos said.  “Children’s stories.  Sometimes just bits of whatever I’m reading.  Why?”

Miss Sheila folded her hands on her desk.  “It’s nothing violent, of course.  Lots of little boys like to draw monsters.  And it’s not only monsters, of course.  I’ve seen him draw pictures of you, Mister-- I mean, M-Montecinos, but he’ll also draw a great big bug thing beside you.  I think it’s a sort of imaginary friend for him, although he… he does say it’s his Papa.”

“I’ve seen one of the bug ones,” Mr. Armandarme said, grinning.  “Handsome fella!  I don’t mind that comparison at all.  Looks good on my desk at work.”

Miss Sheila giggled a bit, relieved that the father wasn’t offended.  “And he colors in lots of red and orange and yellow.  Sometimes he’ll color a whole page orange and say it’s fire.  But again nothing in them is very distressing, I want to be clear, and even the monsters have big smiles.  It’s just something to keep an eye on, that’s all.”

“Hm,” Montecinos said.  One corner of his lips twitched upwards.  “It’s gratifying to know that his monsters are sweet to him.  I know he is not a child prone to nightmares but that never really shows whether or not there is something of which a child is afraid.”

Miss Sheila nodded her head.  “I also think he might rank highly in terms of spatial intuition.  He draws beautiful circles when we play with sidewalk chalk.  His squares and triangles aren’t so good, but circles he has down.”

Mr. Armandarme looked at Montecinos.  “Circles.”

Montecinos gave him a thin-edged smile.  He almost fluttered his eyelashes.  “It’s a survival skill.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Pardon?” Miss Sheila asked.

“Oh, never mind,” Mr. Armardarme smiled.  He looked at Miss Sheila.  “Monty’s an amateur geometer, y’know.  Monkey see, monkey do.”

“Amateur!” Montecinos snapped.  “You bite your tongue.  In half!”

Geometry!  That would make a lot of sense.  She’d always heard that mathematicians were eccentric…  Miss Sheila hurried on.  

“And Timmy has very strong social skills.  Sometimes he’s a little rambunctious, but most children are, and he’s good about teamwork.”

Montecinos frowned a little bit and shifted one leg up to cross at the knee.  “What do you mean?”

Miss Sheila blinked.  She darted a look at Mr. Armandarme, looking for a hint, but a little divot of worry had appeared between Mr. Armandarm’s eyebrows.

“Er.  He’s a good team-player.  He participates in group activities and supports his classmates in team projects.  He plays well with the other children during organized games or free play.”

The old man’s eyes widened.  “Participating!  You mean he doesn’t skulk in corners?  Or hoard resources and lend them out at exorbitant rates?”

“No.  Of course not!”

“W-Well, wait.  He can’t be participating all the time,” Mr. Armandarme suggested with a pained smile.  He looked at Montecinos, almost talking more to him than to her.  “He plays along for a while but then wanders off to pull the feathers off a live bird.  Or maybe pick apart a piece of roadkill.  Right?”

“No!  Oh,”  Miss Sheila laughed awkwardly.  “All right, all right.  Very funny.  I’ve seen The Addams Family, you don’t have to make fun of me.”

The old man still looked worried.  “Bub…”

“Calm down.  We’ll talk about it later,” Mr. Armandarme said.

“Bub, I don’t like the thought of being being overly friendly with these children.  At the very least he’s going to get his little heart broken, and before he’s old enough to do anything with it.”

“It’s not a big deal, Monty.  We’ll figure something out.”

“Gentlem--”

“He needs peers his own age.  A play date group in-- your place.”

“No.  Not at my place.  He’s fine.”

“He’s got to be properly socialized, Bub.  These are warning signs.  Omens, if that’s the only way you’ll listen to me.”  Montecinos spoke with the weary air of someone resuming a fruitless argument.  “You know, Little League would cure him of this...”

Mr. Armandarme scowled.  “No!  No competitive sports!”

“He’ll never learn to develop a cult of personality if you won’t let him fight for victory!”

“I don’t care about him having any kind of cult until he’s 18!  I’ve put my foot down, Monty, and I’m not going to let you push him!”

“He won’t know his own strength until he’s pushed!  At the very least you could ask him if he wants to play, instead of deciding that he can’t!”

“Enough!  We’ll talk about it later!”

“Fuck off, we will not,” Montecinos snarled.  “You’ll make a proclamation and try to flay the skin off the backs of my knees when I argue for any opportunity for the child to prove himself exemplary!”

“I said enough, you uppity little gut-squeezer--”

“Just because _you_ were a pathetic little underachieving mess doesn’t mean our child--”

Mr. Armandarme whirled on the old man.  Miss Sheila let out a cry, really thinking he was going to hit Montecinos, but instead he let out a kind of _noise_ — a low, inhuman chitter of a sound that sent a searing throb through her brain and made something high up in her sinuses break and start gushing out of her nose.  Miss Sheila began to shake, her vision swimming from her spinning head and tears of pain.  

Montecinos turned his attention to her.  

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said.

“What now?” Mr. Armandarme demanded.  He still spoke in that agonizing voice and Miss Sheila’s body began to seize.  “Oh.  Shit.”

“Yeah,” Montecinos said.  Half-dead, Miss Sheila watched him make an elaborate gesture with both hands.  The pain suddenly stopped and her body slumped.  She felt like she was floating.  “Hang on.  Let’s try this again.”

“It’s your goddamn fault, you relentless taint-cramp.”

“Shut up.  Don’t distract me.”

* * *

Miss Sheila blinked and looked around.  Montecinos was smiling genially at her.  He really might’ve had a nice smile, if he would just put on a little more weight.

“Um,” she said, having lost the thread of their conversation.  “I’m so sorry.  Where were we?”

“Social skills,” the old man said.  He stroked his beard.  “We can work on those.”

“O-Oh.  Yes.  Well, they’re quite strong already,” Miss Sheila said.  “Although of course there’s always room for improvement.”

Montecinos gave her an arch smile.  “Yes.  We’ll work on it.  Is there anything else?  Physical education, perhaps?”

“No.  Not really.  I do think some amount of organized sport could be good for him,” Miss Sheila pointed out.  “Has he shown any interest in Little League, or maybe Peewee Soccer?”

“You son of a bitch,” grumbled Mr. Armandarme.  “Don’t put that shit in!”

At the sound of his voice instinctive terror skittered up Miss Sheila’s spine.  She stared hard at Montecinos, feeling a cold sweat bead on her forehead.  She should report Mr. Armandarme, she really should.  What should she say?  And to whom?  He was an evil man, she knew that, or maybe not even a man.  Something about him was wrong, she knew, but what, and how?  

Miss Sheila made herself look at Timmy’s father.  He was just a pink, portly man who didn’t want his son playing sports.  The sight of him made her stomach turn over and she struggled not to wet herself.  Something about him was wrong, wrong, wrong.

“I assure you I added nothing, Bub,” Montecinos said dryly.  “Maybe you’ll do me the kindness of watching your goddamn tone for the next few minutes.”

Miss Sheila shivered.  Maybe Montecinos could keep him in line.  Maybe Montecinos protected Timmy.  

She pitied the boy.  She’d have to report this.

“I think that’s all,” Miss Sheila said thinly.   “Just math skills.  We’ll start our science unit next month.  It’s about telling time.  Butterflies.”  She hiccuped.

“Fantastic,” Montecinos said.  He started to rise from his seat.  “We’d love a full report.  Let’s not take up any more of your time, Miss Sheila.  Thank you for seeing us today.”

“My pleasure,” she wheezed up at the old man.

“Thanks,” Mr. Armandarme grunted at her, standing.

She hiccuped again.  Her cheeks felt wet and hot and her nose was running.

Montecinos frowned and leaned down into her face.  He grabbed her chin and moved her head back and forth, examining her eyes.  “Fuck me, Bub.  You and that temper of yours.  You’ve almost shot the whole rig.  I’ll have to do it again.”

“Get bent, dickhead.  Just put her out of her misery.”

“No.  Timothy likes her.  He says she’s better than the other one.”

“Fine.  Then do your bullshit and remember this the next time you decide to bait me in public.”

“No.  I’ll do my bullshit while you think about how you need to control your temper so you don’t end up explaining to your son how he had to be done out of a teacher he liked because his father wouldn’t keep a civil tongue in his head.”

“Rrr--”

“I’m right.”

“You’re a stringy old shit.”

“Yes, fine.  And maybe, just maybe, I might watch myself a little more around common people and try to make sure they’re not nearby when I need to take you to task on your stupid nonsense.  But I’m not used to walking on eggshells around you and I’m not going to start now, so you’ve got to carry some of this load.  This is the last time I do this, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Do your bullshit.  Clock’s ticking.”

“Eat me.  I can dawdle as I like.  Time obeys _me_.”

* * *

“We don’t want to take up any more of your time,” Montecinos said.  He was already standing.  “Thank you for seeing us today.  We really appreciate it.”

“Oh, it’s a pleasure,” Miss Sheila said.  She popped up and offered her hand.  Montecinos took it and held it for a moment before slithering away.  “Always wonderful to meet such involved parents.  Er, guardians.”  

Montecinos nodded.  “Come on, Bub, we should go rescue the babysitter.”

“Damned fine to meet you, Miss Sheila,” Mr. Armandarme said.  

Miss Sheila felt a sick curl of revulsion as the awful little man clasped her hand between two pudgy pink paws.  Oh, she’s always disliked men like him, and there was something about him that was so much worse than all the other ones she’d ever encountered.

If someone put a gun to her head and told her they’d shoot if she didn’t call Bub Armandarme about Timmy, she’d call Montecinos.  He might be a mean old donkey husk but as far as she was concerned he was Prince Charming,  when you stood him next to Mr. Armandarme.

“Thanks for coming in,” Miss Sheila said.

“Keep us posted on that science unit,” Montecinos said.  He planted a hand between Mr. Armandarme’s shoulders — amazing he could bear to touch him — and steered Mr. Armandarme towards the door.  “Timothy’s extremely fond of bugs.  We’ll want to be able to chat with him about it.”

“O-Of course,” Miss Sheila said.  Something about the thought of their upcoming project on caterpillars and butterflies brought goosebumps to her skin.  She rubbed one of her arms.  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

“See ya,” Mr. Armandarme said.

Miss Sheila thought, _Oh, Lord, I hope not._


	4. Chapter 4

On the foyer table, the conch shell was screaming.  It screamed with a man’s voice.  Montecinos had modeled it off of what he remembered his father’s voice sounding like.

The month’s batch of skin had come in four days ago.  After the visits from the unlicensed surgeons and tattoo artists who came to buy by the yard, Montecinos’ life had become a non-stop scraping session to get all the residual flesh of the bolt, sprinkled with periodic interruptions for the harmless little inconveniences that attended child-rearing.  Now, he wiped his hands and stepped out of the bathroom, where the tanning buckets were sitting in the bathtub, and scooped up the shell.  He held it to his ear.

“Montecinos,” he announced flatly, walking back over to his work desk.

Over the line came a little sniffle and a hesitant, “Monty?”

Montecinos frowned.  “Timothy?  It’s two in the afternoon.  Why are you calling?”

“I’m in the principal’s office,” Timmy replied.

“Well, I think you’d better put him on, young man,” Montecinos said.  His voice was a little severe, perhaps, but he was genuinely surprised when Timmy burst into loud sobs.  “Timothy—!”

The little boy cried like his heart was breaking.  “I’m in trou-trou-troub-truh—”

“Timothy,” Montecinos intoned, “calm down and let me be the judge of whether you’re in trouble or not.  Why isn’t the principal on the line?”  Montecinos’ experience with the vagaries of the public school system was spotty at best, but even he felt sure it was unusual for the child to call the parent, when disciplinary wheels were in motion.

“He wuh-wuh-wuh-went to guh-get his gun,” Timmy wailed.

“What in—his gun?  Why?  What happened?” Montecinos demanded.

Timmy made a wet, lingering sniffle.  “Jeffrey John-Paul p-pushed me at recess and my guh-glamour paper ripped.  Everybody screamed and told me to get away, so I walked to the principal’s office, b-but he screamed and threw books at me and r-ran to g-g-get h-his—”

There was nothing more to be gotten after that.  Timmy broke into a fresh wail and Montecinos tried to swallow down his heart from where it had lodged in his throat.  

“Hey,” he said in a gentle tone, belying the clatter he made as he sprinted into the bedroom and tore open his closet.  “Chico, it’s all right!  I’ll come down and take you home.  We can straighten this out in a few minutes, so you sit tight and–”

“I didn’t muh-mean to get in trouble,” Timmy sobbed.  “Jeffrey John-Paul pushed me!  I didn’t mean to.  I’m _saw-ree_.”

Montecinos made himself laugh as he pulled on his waistcoat of human flesh and started doing up the buttons.  “Of course it’s not your fault.  You’re not in any trouble, Timoteo.  No need to be sorry.  I promise.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  You’re in the principal’s office, right?”

“Yuh-yeah.”

“Can you go lock the door for me?”  Montecinos asked, trying to keep the note of desperation out of his voice.  “Just to be sure I get to see you first.”

“Okay,” Timmy mumbled.  He made another wet snort.  “I can do that.”

“Good,” Montecinos said warmly.  “Lock up and go sit down under the principal’s desk.  I want you to count how long it takes me the get there.  I’ll try and race you to 100.”

“Okay,” Timmy said, taking a deep breath.  “Ready?”

Montecinos opened one of the living room windows and pulled the screen out of the way.  “Ready.”

“One mississippi, two mississippi—”

“Hanging up.  See you soon,” Montecinos said.  

He tossed the shell onto the sofa and said the word for flying.  The waistcoat tightened around him, hugging his torso and pulling him off of the ground so his feet waved in the air.  Swimming like a fish, Montecinos veered towards the open window and slipped out, wriggling until he was in the clear air and then zinging straight upwards.  He didn’t typically like to fly, mostly because he’d made his waistcoat before he’d gotten really good at sewing.  He didn’t like to be seen like this.

Luckily, very few people tended to believe their own eyes, when they saw a warlock flying through the sky, and he’s always had trouble showing up on film—and now, digital.

The weather was decent.  Even at an elevation to make his head spin, the air was densely humid, wet from the slow revolution from winter to spring.  It would be pleasant in a few more weeks, but for now Montecinos sucked in a lungful of cold air and wheeled east, blazing across town towards Timmy’s school.  He swooped and spun through the bracing chill, barreling across the streets and treetops and regretting at every instant that he didn’t think to pull on a fleece before he left.

Touching down near the school parking lot presented a little difficulty.  His preferred method was to land in a tree and climb down head-first like a gecko, but even if the school had let sufficiently tall trees so near the entrance, the rustling wouldn’t have instilled sufficient fear in the hearts of Montecinos’ victims.  Instead, Montecinos lurched his way down towards a grassy patch of earth and took the landing on his shoulders.  He rolled across the grass, thrashing his way out of the vest and somersaulting back up onto his feet.  

He looked around.

A lanky middle-aged man was moving at a harried clip towards the school, revolver in hand.  He glanced over at Montecinos and jumped, lifting the gun to point it at him.  It seemed that Montecinos had left no forgettable impression at Back to School Night.

Montecinos whirled a curse at the man, barely thinking about the specifics of the hex as he hurried towards the entrance.  The hex turned out to have some fairly severe gastrointestinal consequences, which was perfectly fine with him: he wanted the principal crippled and humiliated on the ground for a while.  They were going to have to have an interview later.  He summoned the gun to his hand and popped out the cartridge, shoving the bullets into his jeans pocket and tucking the rest into his waistband.

Montecinos sprinted into the school foyer and slipped into the front office.  He zipped a little paralysis spell at the office staff and picked up the microphone for the PA system.  He pressed the button and waited to hear the system screech.

“Attention, students and faculty,” he announced.  “You might feel a slight pinch.”  

He spoke the word for paralysis and turned the PA off.  To check his handiwork, he popped his head in to the vice principal’s office, finding the man seated at his desk, a General Tso’s-laden fork lifted to his mouth and a frozen expression of dawning confusion spread across his face.

Montecinos gave her a finger gun and winked loudly, proceeding towards the principal’s office.  He tried the handle gently and smiled—yup, locked.

He knocked.

He heard a loud sniffle through the door and then a fragile, “Who is it?”

“Don Henley.”

A watery giggle.  “Prove it.”

Montecinos grinned.  He bobbled his head a few times to get the beat and crooned, “ _Well, the government bugged the men’s room at the local disco lounge—and all she wants to do is dance, dance…_ ”

“You don’t sound like him!”

“Let me get to the bridge, chico.  I’m not warmed up.”

Timmy interrupted him around “the heat coming off the street.”  The door popped open and Timmy peered uncertainly out, his eyelids making a damp click when they closed over his multi-faceted eyes.  

Montecinos smiled.  “There you are.  Mind if I come in?”

“Okay,” Timmy allowed, stepping back into the office.  Like the rest of the school, the principal’s office was made up of white-washed concrete blocks, but here and there education certificates and framed press clippings containing happy little stories about the school decorated the walls.  There was even a poster of a smiling cat with “the principal is your PAL!” written on it.

Montecinos clicked his tongue.  Damn.  Looks like he’d been a nice man, generally.  It was a damn shame.

Timmy sniffled and wiped his nose across the back of his hand.

Montecinos winced.  “You’re oozing.  Let me get one of the certificates out of the frame and you can blow your nose.”

“It’s scratchy!”

Montecinos sighed and walked over to the desk.   He flopped down in the principal’s chair and began rooting through the drawers for tissues.  “Aha!  Here, blow.”

Timmy consented to Montecinos seizing his nose and using it to shake his little head.  Once Timmy was adequately desnotted, Montecinos tossed the wadded tissue into the pot of a nearby houseplant and picked up the plant mister.  He held Timmy’s chin and closed his eyes illustratively.  Timmy mimicked him and let Montecinos spray him a few times.

“How long did it take me to get here?” Montecinos asked, wiping the boy’s face.

“I lost count,” Timmy admitted.

“Terrible work ethic.  Try to be a sorcerer’s apprentice with that attitude.”  Montecinos scrunched up the latter tissue and tossed it.  He sighed, leaning back in the chair and unfolding a hand to Timmy.  “Let me see the glamour.”

Timmy handed him the crumbled halves of paper.  The spell had been written on a stickie note, for the sake of discretion, but now Montecinos wondered if he shouldn’t have embroidered something and sewn it into all of Timmy’s clothes.  It’d been a hell of a nuisance and at the rate Timmy was growing it’d be more trouble than it was worth, but if it kept the spell from being broken in the middle of the day…

Timmy shifted his weight uncertainly in front of him.  He looked small and flushed from tears and extremely five-years-old, even if the five years were literally bug-eyed and horned.

Montecinos held out his arms.  “Okay.”

Timmy lurched forward, boosting himself up into Montecinos’ lap with a telling amount of scramble in his movements.  Montecinos arranged the child gently, wincing a little at his brittle bones came into contact with dense demon-child bulk.  

Timmy sniffled again, his chin wobbling.  Montecinos stroked his back as the child buried his face against the warlock’s shirt.  Timmy began to shake.

“All right,” Montecinos murmured.  He nudged his chin down to rest on the child’s head and heaved a breath that ruffled Timmy’s hair.  “It’s okay.  It’s all right.”

“Wuh- wuh- wuh- was the p-principal ruh- really gonna—”

“Yes,” Montecinos said.  He couldn’t sugar coat that.  The child might as well know what he could expect from these kinds of people.

Timmy burst into fresh tears, protesting that he didn’t want to be shot.  Well, who ever did?  It was unpleasant all around.

When the boy was a little calmer, Montecinos leaned back to face him and smiled, easing back a few curls of dark hair that had gotten stuck to Timmy’s damp forehead.

“Here’s what I think,” Montecinos said.  “I think we should go home and call Papa so you two can spend some time together while I made dinner.  Your father and I will talk a little bit about some other schools you can go to.  Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Timmy nodded.

“Okay,” Montecinos smiled.  “Let’s go get your book bag.”

“Do we have to?”

Montecinos prodded Timmy in the forehead.  “Of course.  I’m not buying you a new one.  Besides, the last thing you want is for any survivors to think you ran off scared.”

Timmy scowled a little but eventually nodded his head.  “Okay…”

Montecinos smiled.  “But before we do all that… do you want to set the school on fire?  Or anyone in particular?”

Timmy looked coy.  “Nooo…”

Montecinos grinned.  “‘Nooo’?  Nobody at all?”  He tickled Timmy’s ribs and the child squirmed, wailing.  “Not one school bully?”

“Ha ha ha ha!  No, Monty, no!”

“Not even one little fire?” the warlock teased.  “Just a little one!”

The shrieks of laughter were earsplitting without the glamour in place, but Montecinos laughed along and nonchalantly thought a little flicker of magic to repair his eardrums before they began to leak blood and sent Timmy backsliding into misery again.  After a few happy moments, Montecinos stopped tickling and patted Timmy’s ribs.

“Okay!  Okay!  One fire!” Timmy gasped.

“Library?  Art class?  Gymnasium,” Montecinos suggested.

“In here!” Timmy said, holding out his arms.  

“Very poetical.  You want to aim?”

Timmy nodded, grinning and showing a little mouthful of needle-like teeth.  Montecinos offered his hand to the child and closed his eyes.  Timmy took his wrist and made his fingers stick out, pointing the hand off to the left.  

“Fire!” Timmy cried.

Montecinos flickered fire out of his fingertips and listened to something in the room catch alight.  He cracked open an eye to see that Timmy had chosen the potted plant.

Timmy caught him.  “No peeking!”

“Psh.  Small change.  Pick something worth the effort, chico.”

It got out of control pretty quickly.  By the time the office was fully on fire, Montecinos decided that the important thing was to wipe memories and liberate limbs so they could get away before the unparalyzed smoke detectors made a discreet exit tricky.  He could get Bub to foot the bookbag bill.

He took Timmy home and saw him safely installed in his bedroom before going back to school to pick up the principal and Jeffrey John-Paul.  

* * *

There was only one person who could possibly fling open his apartment door with enough force to send it crashing into the wall, and since that person was still young enough to be traumatized by the most harmless little sights, Montecinos hastily threw the head of Jeffrey John-Paul into the stock pot.  By an unexpected stroke of luck, the pot was empty.

Timmy came clattering into the kitchen, followed by the unmistakeable patter of Bub’s long-fingered walk.  “Hi, Monty!”

“Buenos tardes,” Montecinos smiled, propping an elbow on the soup pot lid.  “How was the park?”

“Good!  Can I have a banana milk?”  

“Yes.”  Montecinos glanced at Bub as the demon lurched into view.  “Cocktail, Bub?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“You know where I keep the liquor.”

Bub checked to see that Timmy still had his head in the fridge and made a vaguely obscene gesture in Montecinos’ direction.  Montecinos smiled sharkwise.

“Chico, I’d like you to go play with your trains for a little while.  Papa and I need to talk about schools.”

“I want to talk about schools, too!”  Timmy stabbed the milk box with a straw and took a slurp.  “I want to go to a school where I don’t have to wear a glamour and they don’t give any math homework.”

“Math’s good for you,” Bub said, digging around in the liquor cabinet.  “Puts hair on your chest.  Look at Monty.”

“I don’t want hair on my chest!”

“You will.  Or maybe you won’t.  I don’t know.  I’m not going to teach you to shave yet because you’ll have to practice on your eyebrows.”

“I don’t mind!  Can we shave my eyebrows now?”

“No,” Montecinos said.  “They’ll consider it child cruelty and then we’ll have to do a whole thing about it, and I don’t know about you two but I’ve had it up to my neck with common people for the foreseeable future.”

“They call them Muggles,” Bub said.  He was muddling wormwood in a coupe glass.  “Useful terminology.”

“Trains, please, chico.  I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

“Oh-kay,” Timmy droned.  He sucked on the straw of his milk box as he toddled off into his bedroom.  Montecinos listened for the door to bonk against the door jamb and let his shoulders sag.  He stared at Bub, feeling himself go long in the mouth.

Bub muddled.  “Do I smell burning hair?”

“Fuck,” Montecinos affirmed.  The burner had been left on.  He snapped the stove dial off and unlidded the soup pot.  Jeffrey John-Paul’s head had begun to singe.  He pulled the head up by the hair and tossed it into the sink, wiping his hands on his apron.

Bub snapped his tail around another coupe glass and brought it over to the kitchen island.  Montecinos leaned on the counter.

“The fucking _principal_ , Monty,” Bub grumbled.  Montecinos nodded.  “I got your in loco fucking parentis right here, shitpaste.”

Montecinos smiled thinly.  “You should take a glance in my closet once the little prince is down for the night.  I’ve brought Rambo home.  I had my reckoning, so it’s all yours.”

Bub thumped his palps again.  It was probably supposed to convey something like a smile.  He muddled more contently and swayed a bit.

“No more Muggle schools,” Bub went on.

Montecinos ran a hand through his hair.  “You say that like it’s easy.  I’m going to have to move.  If we lived on the East Coast I might be able to find a magical community in a district this size, but as it is…  It will probably mean a new neighborhood.  Maybe a new city.”

“That’s just as well.  Timmy could use a fresh start.”

“We only get a few fresh starts, you know.  This isn’t a magic-rich portion of the world.  The geography is off.”

“What?  You’re full of it.  Shouldn’t this be a deeply significant and mysterious region, if there are sasquatches running around?”

“Not in the cities, they aren’t.  We have too many tech startups.  Children are going to be born unimaginative for the next few decades, or at least until the EPA finally slaps a hard enough sanction on the companies that they’ll do something about all the conformity runoff leaching into the ground water.”

Bub poured some thoughtful glugs of pisco and whiskey into the cocktail shaker.  “That really sounds like bullshit but I have to admit I don’t know enough about start-ups to object.”

“You don’t?”

“We’re a non-profit.”

Montecinos let that hang there, sniffing once and watching Bub shake up their drinks.

“Well, where would you have to move?”

Montecinos shrugged.  “I’m not sure yet.  The thing about being a hermitical warlock is that you try and actively avoid magic-dense areas.  Otherwise people have no reason to travel for days to find you.”

“Is that magically necessary?”

“It’s nice to feel wanted.”

Bub grunted and strained the drinks into a pair of glasses.  He dashed in a few drops of something that make the drinks pop and smoke.  “Voila.”

“Sante.”  Montecinos picked up the drink, half-toasted Bub with it, and took a slurp.  He licked the taste of poison off his lips, humming with pleased surprise.  “Not bad.”

“I’m just spitballing here, but if you’re actively avoiding magical communities, that’d suggest to the casual observer that you must know where they are.”

Montecinos rolled his eyes.  “Okay, yes.”

“So where you going?”

“I don’t know!  Over a district.  I’ll figure it out.  Anyway, why am I the one who has to go establish residence?  Why don’t you go buy a house, if you’re keen. ”

“Because I only have him on weekends,” Bub purred. “Perks of secondary custody.”

Montecinos grumbled a little and took another pull from his drink.  He rolled the glass stem around in his fingertips and gnawed his tongue.  

“Out with it,” Bub muttered.  “How bad is it?”

“It’s not bad,” Montecinos crackled.  His voice lacked its usual snap.  “It’s just, maybe, a stumbling point.”

Bub thumped his palps and stuck his labellum in the cocktail.

“You really want him to go to a magical school?” Montecinos asked.  “You’re immovable?  You’re going to insist?”

“Don’t act like you give a shit about my opinion,” Bub replied.  “If you’re pretending to bargain with me instead of squalling objections at the top of your lungs, you can’t want him to be in a Muggle school any more than I do.  Just tell me why you haven’t already suggested the idea.”

Montecinos glared.  “Fine.  I need you to take care of Timothy for a little while.  Two weeks at the outside.”

“Two weeks!” Bub spat.  “Seriously?  You can’t drop a bomb on somebody like this.”

“I’ll have you know I got the bomb dropped on me, too.  I wasn’t really expected to have to rescue Timothy from a gunslinging principal today, so I guess we’ve all had to make a few adjustments.”  Montecinos rolled his glass in his fingers.  “Take a vacation with Timothy.  Even the Infernal Revenue Service must allow holidays.”

“No holy days, no.  We’re a non-prophet, Monty, I told you.”

“Womp,” Montecinos sighed.

“What do you even need two weeks for?”

Montecinos waved a hand.  “Just a little paperwork.  I have some old documents stored in a cave on Chiloe and I need to go get them if I’m going to move.  If I’m going to be there, I might as well wrap up the last of my properties in that region and at least get the shacks rented.”

Bub swirled his drink and rolled his huge head to the side.  “Paperwork, huh.  How’d you get this place, then?”

“The landlord didn’t ask a lot of invasive questions, for one thing.”

“Uh-huh.  Okay.”  Bub sounded thoughtful.  “You know, I’ve never really heard your Coming To America story.  What even happened there?”

Montecinos plucked up the hemlock garnish and ate it, frowning.  “It was political, if you must know.”

“Oh.  No shit?  Pinochet?”

“Who?  Oh.  Yes.  Well, sort of.”  Montecinos lowered his voice.  “Listen, it’s a rather long story and unsuitable for little eavesdropping ears.  I’ll fill you in later, shall I?”

“You shall,” Bub said.  It never would’ve ended there if he wasn’t thinking about those little ears.  But then again, in light of Montecinos’ usual idea of topics suitable for children, Bub wasn’t sure even he wanted to hear all the nasty details.  If the warlock thought his life story contained details too sordid for impressionable demon-spawn, he might need to steel himself.  “I don’t think I can do two weeks right this minute.  Maybe two weeks from now, though.”

“That’s wholly inadequate but I suppose exceptions must be made for wage slaves.”  Montecinos rubbed his face and scratched his fingers through his beard.  He looked like he felt like he looked tired.

“Think of it as extra time for you to start looking for new schools.”

“Is there really no one in your office capable of giving you a recommendation?  Surely someone else must be keeping an eye on their bastard larva living on the Western seaboard.  Otherwise what’s the point of having an assignation with a human woman?”

“There are other perks,” Bub oozed.  “I’ll ask, but I think I’m the only one with a going concern, at least in my department.”

“Whatever you say, stud,” Montecinos sniffed.  “Either way, something with slightly more academic rigor wouldn’t go amiss.”

“No monster-souri school?”

“Absolutely not.  I think something with cute little plaid uniforms should do the trick.”

“No!  No uniforms!” Timmy cried.  His parent and guardian turned to glance at his cracked door and found the little insect-eyed face peering out with enormous interest.

“No, perhaps not.  You’d look like a haggis and that would only torment me the more,” Montecinos mused.  He rested his elbows on the kitchen island and slurped at his drink.  “Just as well.  Start washing up.  Dinner’s almost ready.”

“What are we having?”

“Roast.”

Timmy hustled off to the bathroom and turned on the faucet.

Bub held up a fist in front of his labellum and coughed “Head.”

“Excuse me?”

“Head,” Bub gritted, trying to look significant.

Montecinos lifted his eyebrows.  He glanced at the bathroom door.  “Bub.  I’m flattered, sort of, but I’m afraid I have to decline.  And I don’t even know how that would work, given…”  

He waved at Bub’s face.

“In the sink, dumbshit,” Bub snarled.

Montecinos’ eyes went wide.  “Oh.  Shit, yes…”

He picked up Jeffrey John-Paul’s head and, after a few indecisive moments, chucked the thing into the freezer.

Good enough for the moment, as long as the adults served ice cream for dessert.

* * *

Four weeks later, Bub and Timmy sat on the patio of an independent bakery, waiting for Montecinos to meet them.  Bub was wearing the body of an old woman, patiently unravelling her knitting and smiling as Timmy slurped on a huge iced coffee.  Caffeinated five-year-old sounded like an appropriate welcome-home present for the old goat.  Although Bub had enjoyed spending the time with his son, one thing had become abundantly clear: Timmy was a two-parent job.

He was looking for a malnourished old coot, so when a tall, handsome man in a nice suit arrived at their table, he didn’t glower as hard as he might’ve.  

“Hello, dearie,” Bub creaked.  “Is there something we—”

“Shove it,” the man said.  “I can’t believe you’re giving him coffee, you trashball.”

Bub’s mouth popped open, but Timmy leaped to his feet and threw his arms around the newcomer.

“Monty!”

It was Monty, or a man who might’ve been a younger Montecinos, if the imagination could bear to conceive such a thing.  He was sixty or seventy, with a full head of short gray hair and an immaculate little beard and moustache.  He was gamine, fine-boned, with a healthy but delicate athleticism about his frame that only just verged on skinny.  

The man—Montecinos—Montecinos as the man picked the boy up, squeezing the child tight.

“Okay, all right,” Montecinos protested, as he held Timmy close and pressed his cheek to the boy’s head.  He kissed his hair.  “Enough sentimentality, chico.  You’re embarrassing me.”

“You’re back!” Timmy chirped, as his guardian hugged and cosseted him without any indication that he’d be releasing him soon.  “Papa and I went to Iceland!  I swam in a volcano!”

“Oh?  Was it fun?” Montecinos asked.  He took a seat on the empty chair across from Bub and sat Timmy on his lap.

“Yeah!  And we jumped in lagoons, and I got my tongue stuck to a fjord, and we made the Northern Lights all—”  Timmy made a TV-static noise with his mouth, waving his hands.

Montecinos gave Bub a smile that bore more than a slight trace of amused skepticism.  “Sounds like it went well for everybody concerned.  Although… did you really wear that the entire time?”  He gave Bub a long once-over.

“You’re one to talk,” Bub snapped, flapping a hand.  “What the expletive is all this?”

“Temper, temper.  It’s just a change of clothes.”  Montecinos glanced over at the bakery’s plate glass window and caught sight of his reflection.  “Oh.  Oops.”

Montecinos looked both ways, checking that they were largely unnoticed by the passersby or other customers, and reached for the napkin beneath Bub’s croissant plate.  He scrubbed the napkin over his face and after a few quick swipes the paper became sodden with a viscous fluid.  Montecinos balled it up into a little sphere and quickly ate it, swallowing hard.

The fat had been shorn from his cheeks, leaving the familiar cadaverous face peering out.  Montecinos reached up to his head and got two handfuls of his short hair.  He pulled and the hair spooled out from his scalp, falling long and gray until it reached below his shoulders.  He scratched at his chin and upper lip and the facial hair spun out similarly, until he had a handful of beard to comb his fingers through.  He still looked a little magic-smeared and half-unmade, but he was definitely more discernibly Montecinos.

“That’s better,” the warlock sighed, sitting back in his seat.  The suit looked significantly looser on him, now.  “It took for-goddamn-ever, but you’ll be glad to know I’ve finally gotten my paperwork sorted.  We should be able to go out and start asking about a few schools around here.

“What possible paperwork could’ve required you to dress up like that?” Bub demanded.

Montecinos reached into the jacket pocket and produced a little black book.  He flicked it across the table and Bub caught it.  

Across the top, it read “Republica De Chile” in crisp golden letters; beneath, “Pasaporte Diplomatico” and “Diplomatic Passport.”

“What,” Bub said.

“My passport,” Montecinos replied.  To Timmy, he said, “Did you see any reindeer?”

“Yeah!  And we ate one raw!”

“Did you bring me any?”

“Not unless you brought me a souvenir…”

“I did.  It’s a kick in the pants.”

“Nooo!”

Bub opened the passport.  On the second page was a picture of the man Bub had just seen, handsome and smiling and generally as unwarlock-like as a person could hope.  All the same, Bub imagined that the man in the picture would look a great deal like Montecinos, if he really let himself go.  Montecinos’ name was written as “Monty Cinos” and beneath the picture there was some light biographical information, including a birthdate that couldn’t possibly be accurate. Bub flicked through the passport and held some of the pages up to the light.  He rubbed the paper between his fingers and sniffed it.

Choked.

Sniffed again.

“Holy shit,” he gulped.

“Bub!” Montecinos snapped.  He cupped his hands around Timmy’s ears.  “What in the s-u-f-f-e-r-i-n-g-f-u-c-k are you doing, talking like that?”

“This is real!” Bub cried.  “How do you have a real diplomatic passport?”

Montecinos released Timmy’s ears.  “By being a real diplomat, of course.”

Bub checked the issue date.  Two days ago.  “You didn’t go all the way back to Chiloe for this!  It’s brand new!”

“Of course I went back to Chiloe.  Where else was I going to get a diplomatic passport?  I can’t get one of those in America.”

“But you left Chile—”  Bub’s borrowed innards sank towards his sensible LifeStrides.  “What was this political thing, Monty, and how did it go away?”

Montecinos nodded at Timmy.  “I told you, it’s not suitable for—”

Bub fished out the old lady’s wallet.  “Tim-o, do me a favor and go buy a paper.  Any paper, from the shop down the block.”

“But I want to hear—”

“And a gumball,” Bub instructed, adding a quarter to the pile of cash.  “Carry it back in your mouth.”

Timmy was briefly torn, but the thrill of an independent assignment and the promise of a gumball proved more intriguing than any amount of adult conversation could be.  He bounced off of Montecinos’ lap, ignoring the warlock’s “oof,” and took the money.

“Get the Times,” Montecinos instructed.  “I want the sudoku.”

“Shut up,” Bub snarled.  Once Timmy was out of immediate earshot, he said, “Start talking.”

Montecinos made a sardonic face and wiggled his head a bit.

“All right,” he intoned.  “I wasn’t wild about moving somewhere magical because they tend to keep better records than common people.  I have been staying off the grid for the last several decades, following a little, ah, unpleasantness in Chile.”

“This had nothing to do with Pinochet, did it?” Bub asked.

“Who?” Montecinos asked again, briefly blank-faced with confusion.  “Oh!  Him!  I mean, it wasn’t unrelated, but—”

“You piece of shit.  Why, really?”

Montecinos shifted in his chair and thumbed a the edge of the table.  He actually looked embarrassed.  “I miiiiiight be a little bit indicted.  For just a scooch of extortion.”

“Blackmail?”

“That is my preferred nomenclature, yes.”

“Not black magic?”

“Of course not.  What could they possibly charge me for, if they wanted to use that?  Souring milk?”

“So you got got?”

“Well, kind of.  There was a raid on my, shall we say, firm, and I was indicted for extortion.  And bribery.  And being an accessory to rigging elections, bootlegging, collaborating with foreign representatives, and conspiracy.  Shadow-government stuff.  You get the idea.”  Montecinos combed his beard with his fingers.  “Oh!  And murder and child abuse, obviously.”

Bub snarled.  “Indicted for all that?”

“Yes, but mostly the extortion.  That and the deforming of children were what put bread on my table.  Passion projects.  They were going to hang me.”  Montecinos smiled.

Bub squeezed the bridge of his nose and ran a finger across his nostrils.  “I can’t help but notice that you’re not currently hanged.”

“Yes, well, they may have got me for blackmail, but I do have a certain amount of black magic as well,” Montecinos replied.  He wiped his palms on his pants legs.  “As did my colleagues.  That was back in the sixties, and Chile wasn’t quite the little mess it was to become, so since I needed to leave the country anyway I figured that I’d rather go somewhere in the same time zone that had a similar climate.  I came up here and I’ve been here ever since.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bub moaned, pieces falling into place.  “I get it, now.  I’ve never seen your fucking green card!”

Montecinos shrugged a little.  He had the grace to wince around his smile.

“Asshole!”  Bub bellowed.  “You’ve not an American citizen, are you, you lying sack of shit!”

“Of course I am,” Montecinos snapped.  “A South American citizen.  Y’all.”

“How did you get that past the judge at the custody hearing?”

“They only asked me how long I’d lived in Washington,” Montecinos said.  “I was surprised they didn’t ask more but then again I certainly wasn’t going to answer questions they didn’t ask.”

“Unbefuckinglievable,” Bub growled.  “And, what?  You figured that magical people were going to turn you over to the feds, once they got a look at your paperwork?  Why?  What’d you do to them?”

“Nothing, probably.  But you know magical people.”  Montecinos curled his lip.  “If you’re not all sweetness and law-abiding light they’ll sell you just to do it.  Anything to keep nosy what-d’you-call-ems… Muggles, from accidentally calling attention to them in the pursuit of secular criminals.”

“But in Seattle?  They’re so accepting, the freaks.”

“Apartment hunting is a blood sport, Bub.”

Bub wrinkled his nose.  “That’s a witch hunt.”

Montecinos shrugged.  

Bub smacked the passport on his palm.  “So you went all the way back to fucking Chiloe to get yourself a bona fide, so they couldn’t bust you as an illegal immigrant.”

“Undocumented immigrant, dickhead.”

“You were literally indicted.  You’re literally a fugitive from justice.”

“Oh.  Well, yes, when you put it like that.”

“Asshole,” Bub said again.  He paged through the passport once more.  “So how’d you get it?”

“Well, a lot of the people who used to know me are dead.  And they didn’t happen to tell their children about me, or what I know.”

“You went down to Chile to put the squeeze on them.”

“Ye-es.”  Montecinos shrugged.  “All things considered, it even wasn’t a steep bargain.  I could ruin their careers or they could give me one of my own.  Seems equitable.”

“And what’s to stop them from ruining you now that you’re out of the country?  I’d denounce your scrawny ass in a heartbeat.”

Montecinos gave him a dry look.  “This isn’t amateur hour, Bub.  I only brought in people who would be killed for the things I know about them.”

Bub shrugged a little.  He peered at the passport again.  “What’s a Subcultural Attache, anyway?”

Montecinos scratched his beard.  “I believe it’s a crack about my musical taste.  I’ll allow it.  I like to let victims get a few little licks in.  It makes them feel better, and after all diplomacy is all about give and take. ”

“You dick,” Bub said.  He managed not to sound impressed.

Montecinos shrugged.  

“You piece of shit!” Bub went on.  “I could’ve gotten full custody over this!”

“Oh, yes,” Montecinos smiled.  “Too bad, so sad.  Now you have to contend with a charming diplomat.  That’s probably going to suck for you.”

“And there’s no chance you’ll just fuck off back to Chile and leave us alone, now that the heat’s off?  I can’t offer you hellish concubines, or a cave that doesn’t leak, or a position in Marketing for when you finally drop dead?”

Montecinos grinned with all his teeth.  “And leave my beloved anchor baby?  Not a chance.  Besides, if I wanted concubines, I would’ve married for a green card.  And that…”  He shuddered theatrically.  “No.  Definitely not.”

“No?”

“It’s so permanent, Bub,” Montecinos said.  “Residence in America, but at what cost?  At least this, I can quit.”

“I hope they make you do actual diplomacy, asshole.  Serve you right.”  Bub tossed the passport back across the table.  

Montecinos took it with a smile and tucked it back into his jacket.  He opened his mouth to reply but a hurtling 50-pound ball of demon-spawn bonked into his chair.

“Mlahhhh,” Timmy said, taking out his gumball so he could talk and shove a pile of newspapers into Montecinos’ lap.  “I’m-back!-I-got-the-New-York-Times-and-the-Los-Angeles-Times-and-the-Times-Union-and-the—”

Montecinos stared, agog at the sight of Timmy was vibrating where he stood.  It seemed that the caffeine had hit.  Bub felt a deep warm glow of contentment and grinned.

“All right, I’m done with you two,” he said.  “I’m going back to Hell.  Pass me one of those papers so I can leave a note.”

* * *

Gertrude Hempermeyer came back to herself with a sudden dizzy jolt.  She had her knitting in her hands and she wasn’t where she’d last been, perched on a bench in the park.

“Oh!” she cried, and looking up at the man across from her, “OH!” again.

He was a horrid old man, mangy-looking and scrawny as a dead snake.  He was wearing a nice suit that was much too big for him and a grumpy expression on his face.

“Who are– how did I–?” Gertrude choked.

“Excuse our manners, Gertrude,” the man said primly.  He looked like he was sucking on a lemon.  “Consider this a little senior moment.  I tried to talk him out of leaving you a message in the crossword, but…”

Gertrude looked down at the table in front of her.  There was an open newspaper turned to the crossword.  Only a few of the spaces had been filled in.  

The spaces read, “Hey cutie.  Call me.” followed by several little hearts and arrows pointing to the comics section.  There were awful symbols drawn around the day’s Family Circle.

“DROP BLOOD IN ME” the caption said.  

Gertrude let out a cry and shoved the paper away.

“Good choice,” the man across from her said.  He collared a little bouncing boy next to him and hauled himself to his feet.  He had a bundle of other newspapers under his arm.  “Oh.  And that wasn’t me, by the way.  I don’t really… well, we wouldn’t get along.  I’ll let you be.  Have yourself a nice day, dearie.”

“What– what– wha—?”

The man pointed a finger gun at her and winked, clicking his tongue.  “Thanks for the loan.  Hasta la vista.”

“Monty-can-we-go-to-the-park-can-we-go-to-the-playground-can-we-go-to-the-moon-I-wanna-go-to-the-moon-do-you-know-anybody-on-the-moon-can-we-go-to-the-pet-store?” the little bouncing boy pattered.

Gertrude was still gibbering as the old man took the boy’s hand and lead the boy away.  She watched them walk down the block and turn a corner.  Then they were gone.

She fumbled for her LifeAlert and pummeled the button with her thumb.  Senior moment her sweet fanny!  She’d been kidnapped!


	5. Chapter 5

The doorbell rang.  

Montecinos looked up from his current leatherworking project with a scowl and hooked the leather stylus behind his ear.  Of course he would be interrupted in the middle of the fidgettiest part of the design.  How could it be otherwise?  He got up from his work desk and walked over to the door, pushing his reading glasses up onto the top of his head as he went.

On the other side of the door stood a not-particularly-young woman, twisting her fingers and looking tearful.  Her skin was covered in scales so delicate they were almost translucent.  If it ever showed up in his coat closet, he’d keep it for himself and make it into a pair of very nice boots.

“I’m not paying to fix any children with cleft lips,” Montecinos said, “so if that’s what you’re here about you can wander back down to the lobby.”

The woman bit her lips.  “No.  I’m not interested in that.”

“You neither?  Small world.”

“I need your help.  Paula said you make potions,” the woman said.  She blinked a clear set of eyelids over those watery eyes.

Montecinos made a noise that was half a scoff and half a growl.  Paula led a mean aerobics class but she had a mouth on her like nothing he’d ever known.  “Paula exaggerates.  I don’t even own a cauldron.  If you want a reference for a holistic doctor who won’t accidentally poison you with echinacea, I can suggest a few places to try.”

“No, no,” the woman insisted.  “It’s not for health.  Um.  The opposite.  I need a love potion.”

Montecinos clutched at his neckline.  There were few enough occasions on which his natural sarcasm could be given vent to an audience that grasped the concept.  Such were the surfeits of life with a five-year-old.  

“Madame!  Those are illegal!  Besides, why dress it up?  You’d have better luck with rohypnol.”

The woman let out a shallow, heart-broken laugh.  “I don’t want sex with him!  God, I’d rather have a potion that would make him never want to have sex again.  But you see he’s got to love me, or—”

“Yeah, look: I really can’t help you.  I’m just really not interested in this kind of thing.  Maybe try couples’ counseling.”  Montecinos began to close the door.

“Then make me something to kill a baby!” the woman cried, sticking out a hand to hold the door open.

Montecinos paused.  “Excuse me?”

“They firebombed the Planned Parenthood last month and I can’t go anywhere else!  If he won’t acknowledge the baby is h-his, and he won’t love me enough to marry me, then… Please!”

“Oh… kay,” Montecinos intoned.  “Okay, I see.  Come on in, then.  I think we may have something to offer each other.”

The woman’s name was Sophia Nhorellus.  She worked at the community center as the head of program scheduling.  Sophia had met Tyler five months ago, thought they were serious four months ago, and suspected something was hinky with her uterine climate three months ago.  By this point, Tyler had stopped taking her calls.  There was a distinct Carol Dodds Is Pregnant vibe to the whole scenario and Montecinos had trouble not humming to himself during the dull parts of the story.

“I can’t say anything to my family,” Sophia sniffled.  “They’d never speak to me again.”

“Hell, sweetheart,” Montecinos said, not because he had any knowledge of the sweetness of Sophia’s heart but because he knew a comforted mother tended to grow a tender baby.  “They don’t sound all that prize-winning themselves, but sooner them than the Great White Punter.  Do you even want to marry him?”

“I have to, if I’m going to have the baby.”

“And do you particularly want to have the baby?  I ask because I’m a born poisoner but I’m terrible with love potions.  I can get rid of the baby without a hitch, but I’m as likely to chemically lobotomize the boy as to make him a good husband.”

Sophia sniffled again.  She’d found herself on Montecinos’ sofa.  He wasn’t quite sure how that had happened; almost no one ever made it to his sofa.  

“I don’t care.  Either way, I just want this to be over.  I don’t want to be single and pregnant.  I want to be one or the other.”

“Excellent,” Montecinos smiled.  “I just happen to be in the market for baby flesh, so here’s what I think sounds fair: in exchange for extracting the fetus, I want you to sign its little body over to me.  The ingredients and labor for the potion won’t cost much, so give me a ten spot and we’ll call it even.”

Sophia’s lip wobbled a bit.  She took a deep breath.  “Is it safe?  I might want to have a baby again someday.”

Montecinos stroked his beard.  “Ahhh, well.  Technically speaking, the extraction takes a physiologically impossible form, but after it’s done you’ll be none the worse for wear.  I intend that you should be able to conceive again, but of course nothing is certain and life is a rich tapestry. As it is, you’ll want a little Pepto to settle yourself but you’ll walk out on your own two feet.”

“O-Okay…?  That sounds acceptable.”

“Great.  Does now work?  I just need to get a pen and bust out the Vitamix.”  

Montecinos lurched out of his seat in the armchair and cast a quick spell on his way into the kitchen.  A notebook from the work desk flew over to the coffee table and flipped open, shedding a blank sheet.  Two pens floated over and began scratching out twin contracts on the sheet and a fresh page in the book while the warlock banged around in the kitchen.  He hauled out the blender and a few ingredients and lifted his voice to dictate the document.

“‘I, Sophia Nhorellus — hereafter referred to as The Client — authorize Montecinos, El Brujo de Chiloe, The Deformer, Villain of a Thousand Tales — hereafter referred to as The Warlock — to administer an emetic potion with the —’”  

Montecinos looked up in the middle of dumping a banana and several unpeeled frozen shrimp into the blender.  “Say, Sophia.  You’ve never had any interest in the miracle of flight, have you?”

Sophia goggled at him.  “Oh?  N-No.  Never.  I don’t like planes.”

“Darn.  Well, you can’t have everything.  ‘An emetic potion with the _sole_ intention of terminating a life-threatening pregnancy; hereafter referred to as The Product.’”

“I feel pretty healthy, really.”

“It’s your family life that’s at stake, from the sound of things.  ‘In exchange for the construction and use of The Product, I agree to forfeit the body of the fetus to The Warlock and pay a $10 administrative fee.  I irrevocably agree to submit any and all claims against The Warlock to arbitration rather than to a judge or jury and that The Warlock may submit any claim by me to binding arbitration.’  I’ll need you to initial there.”

“Okay.”

“In blood, not just yet.  Next page!”  Another page ripped out of the book and the pen began drafting another contract.  “‘I request services from The Warlock in full agreement with and understanding of the above. I do not rely on any oral representations in completing this form and am not under any pressure to sign. This form applies to all past and future services rendered by The Warlock and shall bind me and my heirs, legal representatives, and assigns. Each provision shall be severable from the remainder and enforceable to the fullest extent of the law.’  Anything else?”

“I think that sounds about right,” Sophia said hesitantly.  “I’m a little surprised that black magic has so much paperwork.  I thought, since it was already illegal… but then I guess there’s nothing on the books about it, is there?”

“Not yet,” Montecinos agreed.  He dumped a few tablespoons of powdered mandrake into the blender along with a little mustard, pickled ipecacuanha, and a dose of peach schnapps.  “But it’s nice to have things tidy.  Everybody knows what they’re getting out of the arrangement.  You don’t know how often that’s come in handy.  When we’re done you can turn over the money and I’ll cut you a receipt.”  

“Thank you,” Sophia said.  She gave him a tremulous smile.  

Montecinos struggled not to return it, knowing his grin couldn’t but be nasty at this stage.  If she were smart, she’d change her name before any wedding announcements appeared in the local paper.  This kind of thing was a blackmailer’s gold mine.

He pulsed the mixture in the blender until it was a thick slurry and poured it into a glass.

“All right, Sophia.  Come on over.  We might as well do this in the kitchen sink, so I don’t have to get my hands wet.”

The fetus was the size of a lemon.  Montecinos dug through Sophia’s guts and squirted the little body out of her uterus like a tomato out of a blanched skin.  He plopped it in a large mason jar with some fluid and a little coconut water for nutrients before beginning the arduous task of putting all of Sophia’s guts back in.  

When it was done, he directed Sophia to the bathroom to wash her face and put herself back to rights.  She came out red-eyed and exhausted but evidently much relieved.

“Thank you,” she whispered.  Her voice was hoarse.  Funny how that happened.  

“Not at all.  Eat some heavy fiber when you can.  It’ll stretch everything out and put it back in the right places.”

Sophia rubbed her left eye with her sleeve.  “R-Right.  Thank you.  None of the other witches were willing to help.  They refused to give me a love potion and they swore they wouldn’t deal in death in death, because it was dark magic.”

“It’s a false dichotomy,” Montecinos said modestly.  “The notion of light magic is a crock.”

After Sophia left, he put the bottled fetus on the window ledge in Timmy’s room.  It would be out of the direct sun there but still get enough light to grow.  

The boy was getting to the age where simple biological functions were well-within his conceptual grasp.  It was about time he started to meet his meat.

* * *

The boo hag was named Dianthe.  She’d left her ex-husband back in March and hadn’t felt quite right since.  In pursuit of a rekindled groove Dianthe had decided that what she needed was a whole new look.  She’d contacted Montecinos over Etsy and offered him a commission he couldn’t refuse.  Montecinos had briefly prevaricated, but she’d had him dead to rights.

“I know what a human skin looks like,” Dianthe had said.  “Even once it’s been made into a wallet.”

That had been the end of that.

“Of course I’d rather have Black,” she’d gone on.  “That’s how I’ve always identified.”

“Okay,” Montecinos had agreed.  “It’ll take a while but we can go through a few sets to find the right shade.  But keep in mind that I can’t really put in an order for age, sex, and pattern.  We’ll have to catch as catch can.”

“No problem,” Dianthe said.  “I can borrow someone else’s for the interim.  I’m willing to wait so long as I can have one that’s really my own.”

She really did, and she had a very narrow definition of what constituted ‘her own.’  Several choices that even Montecinos would’ve considered swapping his skin for hit the bin but at last a really dapper little number with vitiligo came in.

Dianthe pounced.

“Oh my God!” she cried, holding the skin up to her raw red body and vamping in front of the standing mirror.  “It’s gorgeous!  Look at the colors!  And it’s so soft and clean!”

It was beginning to dry out, in Montecinos’ expert opinion, but it was nothing a steam bath and a little coconut oil wouldn’t fix.  His transaction for the ownership of his soul was still a blight on his negotiator’s pedigree, but at least ‘good skin’ covered an adequately narrow subsection that the quality of the product was always high.  He reached out and draped the empty tube of arm skin around Dianthe’s neck like a scarf.  

“It’s a sweet design, to be sure,” Montecinos said.  “Now, there is an old tattoo on the left ass cheek.  I assume you’ll want that excised?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dianthe agreed, shifting around to hold the Tweety Bird tattoo up to the mirror.  She snorted.  “But other than that…!”

“Do you want this tucked?” Montecinos asked, flicking the empty skin tube between the legs.  “I can do a mattress stitch across the undercarriage but I’d need to cure the skin for any complicated sculpture.”

“Oh… hm.  Actually, do you think it can work as a reversible pocket or something?  It could come in handy.”

Montecinos leaned down to peer at the empty foreskin through his readers.  “Hmmm.  It should be possible.  Let me try it out with a few practice sheets.  I think it would work if I get it on a hinge or something.”

Dianthe gave him a grin and twirled.

“Put it on and I’ll get my pins,” he instructed.  This was going to take a lot of tailoring.  Whoever had had the skin before had lived a full life in it.  Dianthe was going to drown.

He’d just gotten the legs set to Dianthe’s size when the doorbell rang.  Mouth full of pins, Montecinos growled and glared at the door.  

“You wanna get that?” Dianthe asked.

“Obviously not,” Montecinos replied, getting to his feet with a pair of resounding pops from his knees.  Dianthe admired the shape of her calves in the mirror, smiling as Montecinos crossed the room and jabbed his eye glasses up on top of his head.

There was a man on the other side of the door.  His face was set in the defiant mask of the terminally insecure and his hair was a roiling orange flame.  He stared for a moment at the pins in Montecinos’ mouth.

Montecinos sighed.  “Yeah?”

“Sophia sent me,” said the man.

That was it.  Blackmail time.  Who did he have to kill to keep a low profile in this community?

Montecinos examined the man.  He certainly didn’t _look_ like a Tyler.  “Never heard of her.”

“Bullshit you never heard of her.  You took care of Tyler for her.  Hexed his ass.  I want one.”

“Yeahhh,” Montecinos drawled.  “Look, kid, there were some extenuating circumstances for that.  The hex was gratis.”  

(She hadn’t asked him to do anything of the kind, but the roasted fetus had been so delicious that Montecinos had been moved to generosity.  Every time she shed a tear over Tyler, the subject of her thoughts got debilitating leg cramps.)

“Great,” said the man in the hallway.  “Gratis me.”

“No.  Go hex someone yourself.”

“You think I’d be here if I could?  Come on, man.  I need to hex my neighbor!”

“That is beneath my dignity,” Montecinos said.  In an undertone, he added, “What are you offering?”

“What do you charge?”

“$120 for a minor inconvenience, $300 for something that’ll put him in the hospital, and a grand for permanent physical damage.”

“I want to fuck up her window boxes.  Bitch is not taking the Best Spring Garden this year.”

Idiot.  This was the thing, in Montecinos’ opinion: anyone could bedevil someone else.  You didn’t need a hex.  Just sneak over in the dead of night and salt the soil.  But if this man was willing to pay for craftsmanship…  

“I really don’t care about your reasons,” Montecinos muttered.  “Better I don’t know, in fact.  It’d be $120.”

“For window boxes?!”  Montecinos began to close the door; the man reached out and pushed it open again.  “Hey!”

“Who’s the warlock here?” Montecinos asked.  “You want a hex or what?”

“Fine!  $120.”

“Right.  Come back in… eh, three hours and we’ll go over it.”

The man scoffed and his hair let out a puff.  “What, like you got a wait list?”

Montecinos narrowed his eyes.  “Listen, pee-wee, I can make my schedule incredibly fucking tight if you’re going to keep giving me lip.  Three hours, got it?”

“Got it, got it.  Three hours.”

Montecinos closed the door in the man’s face and walked back to Dianthe.

“I didn’t know you sold curses,” she said once he was back on his knees.  Montecinos glared up at her over the rims of the glasses and gnawed on a pin.  “I should’ve guessed!  I thought you were just a serial killer or something.”

“I can do both,” Montecinos groused.

“You _are_ a Renaissance man, at that,” Dianthe enthused.  She waved at her tightening skin and he prodded her to keep still; the curve of the waist was always tricky to get right.  He’d have to do invisible pleats.  

The shoulders were going to be so obnoxious, but it would all come right in the end.  Dianthe had beaucoup alimony.

“But I don’t know any wizards!” Dianthe went on.  “You should’ve said something!  I got lots of friends who could use good skins and a few hexes for the road!  That’s useful stuff.”

Montecinos shook his head.  “Listen, sugar.  I have a thriving cottage industry all on my own and I don’t really care to be known as the only person in this hell-forsaken district with enough guts to lay a Roald Dahl on somebody’s ass.  Unimaginative people like that guy will never leave me alone.  Keep it lidded, will you?”

“Oh, fine.  If it’s really such a big deal.”

“Also I’m not a wizard,” Montecinos added.  He pinched up some excess flesh and pinned it up, checking that the crouch was still where it needed to be.  He shifted around to the back, beginning to pinch up excess for the darts.

“Even if I was right and cared, I wouldn’t stand here and disagree with you when you’re working on a beautiful hand-tailored custom skin for me,” Dianthe said.  “We can have a real conversation about it when you get the sizing right.”

Montecinos had to smile at that, just a little.

* * *

“Raoul—”

“Don’t tell me you can’t do it, Monty,” the customer insisted.  “You always tell me you can’t do it, or it won’t look good, or it’s a frivolous expense, and then you do it and it’s magnificent and everybody drools over it for weeks.  Just cut to the chase and tell me you’ll do it.”

The customer was an attractive older man (though not older than Montecinos) with a handlebar moustache and a truly rippling set of upper arm muscles.  He was giving a critical look to several of Montecinos’ houseplants, fondling the leaves and frowning.

“Of course I can do it,” Montecinos said.  “And I’m always happy to take money from you.  You know that.  But you had a new ensemble last spring.  I don’t see why you want more, now.  How can you be bored of it so quickly? It took four months!”

Raoul looked up with bright eyes.  “I’m not bored, darling!  It’s a lovely suit, you vain old cat, and splendid for special occasions.  But I have had a brilliant idea and I obviously must pounce on it before you go and make anything else show-stopping for that dreadful old hag.”  

Montecinos rolled his eyes.  “This is my living, you know.”

“But for him?”  Raoul came over and stood with his hands on his hips in front of Montecinos.  “I still cannot believe that you made Miss Jules a bespoke riding uniform when you knew for a fact that I was going to have it out with him at Leather HEAT.  I would tan your hide if I didn’t think you’d give me a lot of attitude about not doing it right.”

“Jules brought me a fun design,” Montecinos shrugged, turning back to the sketches Raoul had brought.  “I don’t know what you want to hear from me, anyway.  It sounds like you still had a thoroughly lovely time even without being belle of the ball-gag.”

Raoul snorted and stepped up behind Montecinos.  He placed his hands on Montecinos’ shoulders and began to gently rub, and it was a testament to Montecinos’ many years of acquaintanceship with this man that it didn’t feel awkward or repulsive.  

“Don’t tell me you think anyone else could make something like this,” Raoul purred.  “Not when I know you can make sheer poetry out of a little rawhide and a bit of string.  No one else deserves to make something like this.”

Montecinos smiled to himself, feeling his muscles warming up and giving way under Raoul’s hands.  “Don’t butter me up, you incorrigible little brat.  You can’t just use a wile or two on me and expect to get everything you want.”

“Doesn’t it look fun, Monty?”

It looked like hell, actually.  Raoul’s sketches showed a set of chaps, a vest, a custom-made hat, two bicep belts, and two gauntlets made of black leather.  The only decoration instructions were a penciled margin note reading “Rococo?  Western?” with arrows pointing to the pattern of the outfit.  The elaborate, intricate swoops and swirls would have to be hand-carved and burned into the leather to replicate the desired raised brocade effect — there was no way it could be practical to get a stamp made for such a huge project.  It would be a masterpiece, if he could put it off: completely one-of-a-kind.

“It’ll take months,” Montecinos grumbled.

“It’ll be your Sistine Chapel, Monty.”

Montecinos had never thought of the Sistine Chapel as being in much danger of having semen or some other bodily fluid accidentally flicked up onto it, but hey, what did he know.

“I’m telling you right now it’ll be at least ten grand,” Montecinos said.  “This is going to be fidgety fucking work.  And you can kiss goodbye any hope of wearing to a festival this year.”

“You’re a doll,” Raoul sang, kissing Montecinos’ temple.  “I knew you’d take the job!  Let me know when you want me for a fitting.”

Montecinos rolled his eyes.  “Just don’t change your weight between then and the delivery day, or the whole effect will be—”

“Oh!  Wait, I’ve forgotten.  I’ll want a whip in the same pattern.”

Gahhh.  “Bull?  Crop?  If it’s a cat, I’ll throw you out.”

“What if I really, really want a cat?” Raoul asked, digging in to a particularly thorny knot in Montecinos’ shoulder.

“Rrr—”

Raoul laughed.  “I’m just teasing, grumpy pants.  A bullwhip, obviously.”

“Fine.  In the same pattern, eight feet long… let’s say $100 a foot.”

“Oh, this is highway robbery.  You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’ll send you an invoice this weekend and start looking for fabric.  When I’ve got some patterns finalized, you can come over and pick out what you like.  I believe I still have your measurements from last spring around here somewhere, and you don’t look like you’ve changed much…”

Raoul ground his thumb against Montecinos’ trapezius and broke down some little twist that had been decades in the making.  Montecinos nearly crooned.  Raoul did have nice hands.

“I’m timeless,” Raoul asserted.  “Although I have been doing more CrossFit lately.”

“Oh, please, _don’t_  spare the details.”

“You might like it, you know.  Lots of man-buns there.”

“Eat me.  I have a five-year-old child, Raoul: I already get more cardio and weight lifting than I can handle.”

The knob on the front door began rattling.  Montecinos glanced up and Raoul paused in the action of digging a thumb in between Montecinos’ shoulderblades.  While Raoul was looking the other way, Montecinos flicked a little glamourizing spell over his shoulder.  He didn’t think Raoul had noticed anything odd about his new neighborhood, but just in case…

Besides, who knew what Bub was wearing.

Timmy pushed in the door, grinning.  “We’re back!”

Montecinos nodded and turned back to the pattern on his desk, shuffling it neatly into the design stack.  “Welcome back, chico.  How was the park?”

“I went on the swing!  Papa pushed me all the way around!”

“And you didn’t accidentally kick him in the back of the head?  Very impressive.”

“He didn’t say that,” Bub rumbled, filing in after Timmy.  Although his borrowed social worker’s body was beginning to look tired, Bub caught sight of Raoul in time to keep it on.  “Oh, hey there.  Sorry to interrupt.”

“Not at all,” Raoul said.  He gave Montecinos a last squeeze and let go, taking a step back.  “We’re just wrapping up here.  Hi, Timmy.”

“Hi, Mr. Buckingham!”  Timmy headed into the kitchen, perfectly uninterested in whatever the adults were up to.  Montecinos heard the fridge open and shut.

“You must be Bub,” Raoul went on.  “I’ve heard a lot.”

Bub put his hands in his pockets and smiled.  “The pleasure’s been all yours, I’m afraid.  Monty and I don’t talk business much.”

“Oh, I imagine you must have much more interesting things to talk about, yes,” Raoul intoned.  He flashed a brilliant smile at Bub and turned it on Montecinos, who gave him an entirely uninspired look.  “Let me let you get back to your day, darling.  I’ll look for the invoice in the mail.”

“Say hi to Jules for me,” Montecinos said.

Raoul gave him a sarcastic little moue and shook Bub’s hand on the way out the door.  Once the door was closed, Bub burst out of the social worker body and sent it spiralling back off to wherever he’d found it.

“He seems nice,” Bub said.

“Don’t even think about it,” Montecinos commanded, “whatever ‘it’ may be.  He’s been one of my best customers for many, many years.”

“What’d he want?  More hexes?  Some kind of silver fox amulet?  Not that he needs one.”  Bub thumped his palps.  It wasn’t quite a wiggled eyebrow, but the spirit was the same.  “Prrowr.”

Montecinos took off his reading glasses and got up from his work table.  “No, nothing metaphysical.  He wants me to obliterate a room full of fornicators next year.  It shouldn’t be hard.”

“Uh… huh.  Well, let me know if anybody from my office is going to have to deal with it.  The murder department is always pretty strapped for time.  It’d be nice to have the heads-up.”

“Oh, I rather imagine some of your colleagues might be in the room when it happens,” Montecinos replied.  “Do yourself a favor and don’t ask for an exacting blow-by-blow after the fact.  They might tell you.”

To some degree he missed the old days, when this sort of thing was desperately outre and at least nominally illegal.  Back then, he had been bound to such clients with a tie that was half dread of exposure and half honor among thieves.  Nowadays everybody had a Snapchat and a mortgage and who knew what all else.

Perhaps that was just the way of things.  Everybody had to settle down sooner or later.  He certainly had.


End file.
